/4 


SKETCHES, 


BY 


MRS.  SIGOURNEY. 

n 


* 

KEY  &  BIDDLE-23  MINOR  STREET, 
1834. 


Entered  according  to  the  act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1834,  by 
KEY  &  BIDDLE,  in  the  clerk's  office  of  the  district  court  for  the 
eastern  district  of  Pennsylvania. 


ps 


1824- 


CONTENTS. 


1.  THE  FATHER Page    9 

2.  LEGEND  OF  OXFORD 23 

3.  THE  FAMILY  PORTRAITS 85 

4.  ORIANA 131 

5.  THE  INTEMPERATE 175 

6.  THE  PATRIARCH. . ,  .199 


THE  FATHER. 


:  Yes, — 1  am  he, — who  look'd  and  saw  decay 
Steal  o'er  the  lov'd  of  earth, — the  ador'd  too  much. — 
It  is  a  fearful  thing,  to  love  what  Death  may  touch." 

MRS.  HEMANS. 


I  WAS  in  the  full  tide  of  a  laborious  and  absorb 
ing  profession, — of  one  which  imposes  on  intellect 
an  unsparing  discipline,  but  ultimately  opens  the 
avenues  to  wealth  and  fame.  I  pursued  it,  as  one 
determined  on  distinction, — as  one  convinced  that 
mind  may  assume  a  degree  of  omnipotence  over 
matter  and  circumstance,  and  popular  opinion.  Am 
bition's  promptings  were  strong  within  me,  nor  was 
its  career  unprosperous. — I  had  no  reason  to  com 
plain  that  its  promises  were  deceptive,  or  its  harvest 
tardy. 

Yet  as  my  path  was  among  the  competitions  and 
asperities  of  men,  a  character  combining  strong  ele 
ments  might  have  been  in  danger  of  becoming  in 
durated,  had  it  not  been  softened  and  refined  by  the 
domestic  charities.  Conjugal  love,  early  fixing  on 
an  object  most  amiable  and  beautiful,  was  as  a  foun 
tain  of  living  water,  springing  up  to  allay  thirst, 
and  to  renovate  weariness.  I  was  anxious  that  my 
home  should  be  the  centre  of  intellectual  and  polish 
ed  society,  where  the  buddings  of  thought  should 


10  THE    FATHER. 

expand  unchilled,  and  those  social  feelings  which 
are  the  life-blood  of  existence,  flow  forth,  unfettered 
by  heartless  ceremony. — And  it  was  so. 

But  my  present  purpose  is  to  delineate  a  single, 
and  simple  principle  of  our  nature, — the  most  deep- 
rooted  and  holy, — the  love  of  a  father  for  a  daugh 
ter.  My  province  has  led  me  to  analyze  mankind ;  and 
in  doing  this,  I  have  sometimes  thrown  their  affec 
tions  into  the  crucible.  And  the  one  of  which  I 
speak,  has  come  forth  most  pure,  most  free  from 
drossy  admixture.  Even  the  earth  that  combines 
with  it,  is  not  like  other  earth.  It  is  what  the  foot 
of  a  seraph  might  rest  upon,  and  contract  no  pollu 
tion.  With  the  love  of  our  sons,  ambition  mixes  its 
spirit,  till  it  becomes  a  fiery  essence.  We  anticipate 
great  things  for  them, — we  covet  honors, — we  goad 
them  on  in  the  race  of  glory  ; — if  they  are  victors, 
we  too  proudly  exult, — if  vanquished,  we  are  pros 
trate  and  in  bitterness.  Perhaps  we  detect  in  them 
the  same  latent  perverseness,  with  which  we  have 
waged  warfare  in  our  own  breasts,  or  some  imbecility 
of  purpose  with  which  we  have  no  affinity ;  and  then, 
from  the  very  nature  of  our  love,  an  impatience  is 
generated,  which  they  have  no  power  to  soothe,  or 
we  to  control.  A  father  loves  his  son,  as  he  loves 
himself, — and  in  all  selfishness,  there  is  a  bias  to  dis 
order  and  pain.  But  his  love  for  his  daughter  is 
different  and  more  disinterested  ;  possibly  he  believes 
that  it  is  called  forth  by  a  being  of  a  higher  and 
better  order.  It  is  based  on  the  integral  and  immu- 


THE  FATHER.  11 

table  principles  of  his  nature.  It  recognizes  the  sex 
in  hearts,  and  from  the  very  gentleness  and  mystery 
of  womanhood,  takes  that  coloring  and  zest  which 
romance  gathers  from  remote  antiquity.  It  draws 
nutriment  from  circumstances  which  he  may  not 
fully  comprehend,  from  the  power  which  she  posses 
ses  to  awaken  his  sympathies,  to  soften  his  irrita 
bility,  to  sublimate  his  aspirations  ; — while  the  sup 
port  and  protection  which  she  claims  in  return,  ele 
vate  him  with  a  consciousness  of  assimilation  to  the 
ministry  of  those  benevolent  and  powerful  spirits, 
who  ever  "  bear  us  up  in  their  hands,  lest  we  dash 
our  foot  against  a  stone." 

I  should  delight  longer  to  dwell  on  this  develop 
ment  of  affection,  for  who  can  have  known  it  more 
perfectly  in  its  length  and  breadth,  in  its  depth  and 
height  1  I  had  a  daughter,  beautiful  in  infancy,  to 
whom  every  year  added  some  new  charm  to  awaken 
admiration,  or  to  rivet  love.  To  me,  it  was  of  no 
slight  import,  that  she  resembled  her  mother,  and 
that  in  grace  and  accomplishment,  she  early  surpass 
ed  her  cotemporaries.  I  was  desirous  that  her  mind 
should  be  worthy  of  the  splendid  temple  allotted 
for  its  habitation.  I  decided  to  render  it  familiar 
with  the  whole  circle  of  the  arts  and  sciences.  I 
was  not  satisfied  with  the  commendation  of  her 
teachers.  I  determined  to  take  my  seat  in  the  sacred 
pavilion  of  intellect,  and  superintend  what  entered 
there.  But  how  should  one  buried  beneath  the  pon 
derous  tomes  and  Sysiphean  toils  of  jurisprudence, 


12  THE   FATHER. 

gain  freedom,  or  undivided  thought,  for  such  minute 
supervision?  A  father's  love  can  conquer,  if  it 
cannot  create.  I  deprived  myself  of  sleep  :  I  sat  till 
the  day  dawned,  gathering  materials  for  the  lectures 
that  I  gave  her.  I  explored  the  annals  of  architec 
ture  and  sculpture,  the  recesses  of  literature  and 
poetry,  the  labyrinthine  and  colossal  treasure-houses 
of  history, — I  entered  the  ancient  catacombs  of  the 
illustrious  dead,  traversed  the  regions  of  the  dim  and 
shadowy  past,  with  no  coward  step, — ransacked 
earth  and  heaven,  to  add  one  gem  to  her  casket. 
At  stated  periods,  I  required  her  to  condense,  to 
illustrate,  to  combine,  what  I  had  brought  her.  I 
listened,  with  wonder,  to  her  intuitive  eloquence  :  I 
gazed  with  intense  delight  upon  the  intellect  that  I 
thus  embellished, — upon  the  Corinthian  capital  that 
I  had  erected  and  adorned.  Not  a  single  acanthus- 
leaf  started  forth,  but  I  cherished  and  fostered  it  with 
the  dews  of  a  father's  blessing. 

Yet  while  the  outpoured  riches  of  a  masculine  un 
derstanding  were  thus  incorporating  themselves  with 
her  softer  structure,  I  should  not  have  been  content, 
unless  she  had  also  borne  the  palm  of  female  grace 
and  loveliness.  Was  it  therefore  nothing  to  me,  that 
she  evinced  in  her  bloom  of  youth,  a  dignity  sur 
passing  her  sex,  that  in  symmetry  she  restored  the 
image  of  the  Medicean  Venus,  that  amid  the  circles 
of  rank  and  fashion,  she  was  the  model — the  cyno 
sure  ?  Still  was  she  saved  from  that  vanity  which 
would  have  been  the  destroyer  of  all  these  charms, 


THE    FATHER.  13 

by  the  hallowed  prevalence  of  her  filial  piety.  It 
was  for  my  sake,  that  she  strove  to  render  herself 
the  most  graceful  among  women,— -for  my  sake,  that 
she  rejoiced  in  the  effect  of  her  attainments.  Her 
gentle  and  just  nature  felt  that  the  "  husbandman  who 
had  labored,  should  be  first  partaker  of  the  fruits." 
Returning  from  those  scenes  of  splendor,  where  she 
was  the  object  of  every  eye,  the  theme  of  every 
tongue,  when  the  youthful  bosom  might  be  forgiven 
for  inflation  from  the  clouds  of  incense  that  had 
breathed  upon  it,  to  the  inquiry  of  her  mother,  if 
she  had  been  happy,  the  tender  and  sweet  reply 
was,  "Yes, — because  I  saw  that  my  dear  father 
was  so." 

Sometimes,  I  was  conscious  of  gathering  rough 
ness  from  the  continual  conflict  with  passion  and 
prejudice,  and  that  the  fine  edge  of  the  feelings  could 
not  ever  be  utterly  proof  against  the  corrosions  of 
such  an  atmosphere.  Then  I  sought  my  home,  and 
called  my  bird  of  song,  and  listened  to  the  warbling 
of  her  high,  heaven-toned  voice.  The  melody  of 
that  music  fell  upon  my  soul,  like  oil  upon  the  trou 
bled  billows, — and  all  was  tranquil.  I  wondered 
where  my  perturbations  had  fled,  but  still  more, 
that  I  had  ever  indulged  them.  Sometimes,  the  tur 
moil  and  fluctuation  of  the  world,  threw  a  shade  of 
dejection  over  me :  then  it  was  her  pride  to  smooth 
my  brow,  and  to  restore  its  smile.  Once,  a  sor 
row  of  no  common  order  had  fallen  upon  me  ;  it 
rankled  in  my  breast,  like  a  dagger's  point ;  I  came 
B 


14  THE    FATHER. 

to  my  house,  but  I  shunned  all  its  inmates.  I  threw 
myself  down,  in  solitude,  that  I  might  wrestle  alone 
with  my  fate,  and  subdue  it ;  a  light  footstep  ap 
proached,  but  I  heeded  it  not.  A  form  of  beauty 
was  on  the  sofa,  by  my  side,  but  I  regarded  it  not. 
Then  my  hand  was  softly  clasped,  breathed  upon, 
— pressed  to  ruby  lips.  It  was  enough.  I  took  my 
daughter  in  my  arms,  and  my  sorrow  vanished. 
Had  she  essayed  the  hackneyed  expressions  of  sym 
pathy,  or  even  the  usual  epithets  of  endearment,  I 
might  have  desired  her  to  leave  my  presence.  Had 
she  uttered  only  a  single  word,  it  would  have  been 
too  much,  so  wounded  was  my  spirit  within  me. 
But  the  deed,  the  very  poetry  of  tenderness,  breath 
ing,  not  speaking,  melted  "  the  winter  of  my  dis 
content."  Ever  was  she  endued  with  that  most 
exquisite  of  woman's  perfections,  a  knowledge  both 
when  to  be  silent,  and  where  to  speak, — and  so  to 
speak,  that  the  frosts  might  dissolve  from  around 
the  heart  she  loved,  and  its  discords  be  tuned  to 
harmony. 

Thus  was  she  my  comforter,  and  in  every  hour 
of  our  intercourse,  was  my  devotion  to  her  happi 
ness  richly  repaid.  Was  it  strange  that  I  should 
gaze  on  the  work  of  my  own  hands  with  ineffable 
delight?  At  twilight  I  quickened  my  homeward 
step,  with  the  thought  of  that  countenance,  which 
was  both  my  evening  and  morning  star ;  as  the  bird 
nerves  her  wearied  wing,  when  she  hears  from  the 
still-distant  forest,  the  chirpings  of  her  own  nest. 


THE    FATHER.  15 

I  sat  in  the  house  of  God,  in  the  silence  of  sab 
bath  meditation,  and  tears  of  thrilling  exultation 
moistened  my  eyes.  I  gazed  upon  my  glorious 
creature,  in  the  stainless  blossom  of  unfolding  youth, 
and  my  whole  soul  overflowed  with  a  father's  pride. 
I  said,  What  more  can  man  desire  1  I  challenged 
the  whole  earth  to  add  another  drop  to  my  cup 
of  felicity.  Did  I  forget  to  give  glory  to  the  Al 
mighty,  that  his  decree  even  then  went  forth,  to  smite 
down  my  idol  ? 

I  came  from  engrossing  toil,  and  found  her  rest 
less,  with  strange  fire  upon  her  cheek.  Fever  had 
lain  rankling  in  her  veins,  and  they  had  concealed 
it  from  me.  I  raved.  I  filled  my  house  with  phy 
sicians.  I  charged  them  wildly  to  restore  her  to 
health  and  to  me.  It  was  in  vain.  I  saw  that  God 
claimed  her.  His  will  was  written  upon  her  brow. 
The  paleness  and  damps  of  the  tomb  settled  upon 
her. 

I  knelt  by  the  bed  of  death,  and  gave  her  back  to 
her  Creator.  Amid  the  tears  and  groans  of  mourn 
ers,  I  lifted  up  a  firm  voice.  A  fearful  courage  en 
tered  into  me.  I  seemed  to  rush  even  upon  the 
buckler  of  the  Eternal.  I  likened  myself  unto  him 
who,  on  Mount  Moria, "  stretched  forth  his  hand,  and 
took  the  knife  to  slay  his  son."  The  whole  energy 
of  my  nature  armed  itself  for  the  awful  conflict.  I 
gloried  in  my  strength  to  suffer.  With  terrible  sub 
limity,  I  stood  forth,  as  the  High  Priest  of  my  smit 
ten  and  astonished  household.  I  gave  the  lamb  in 


10  THE    FATHER. 

sacrifice,  with  an  unshrinking  hand,  though  it  was 
my  own  heart's  blood,  that  steeped,  and  streamed 
over  the  altar. 

It  was  over.  She  had  gone.  She  stayed  not 
for  my  embraces.  She  was  permitted  to  give  me 
no  parting- token.  The  mind  that  I  had  adored, 
shrouded  itself  and  fled.  I  knew  that  the  seal  upon 
those  eyes  must  not  be  broken,  till  the  trump  of  the 
Archangel. 

Three  days  and  nights,  I  sat  by  the  dead.  Beauty 
lingered  there,  in  deep,  and  solemn,  and  sacred  re 
pose.  I  laid  my  head  upon  her  pillow.  I  pressed 
my  lips  to  hers,  and  their  ice  entered  into  my  soul. 
I  spoke  to  her  of  the  angels,  her  companions.  I 
talked  long  to  the  beautiful  spirit,  and  methought,  it 
answered  me.  Then  I  listened  breathlessly,  but 
"  there  was  no  voice,  nor  any  that  regarded."  And 
still,  I  wept  not. 

The  fatal  day  came,  in  which  even  that  clay  was 
to  be  no  longer  mine.  The  funeral  knell,  with  its 
heavy,  yet  suppressed  summons,  came  over  me  like 
the  dividing  of  soul  and  body.  There  was  a  flood  of 
weeping,  when  that  form,  once  so  replete  with  every 
youthful  charm,  so  instinct  with  the  joyous  move 
ment  of  the  mysterious  principle  of  life,  was  borne 
in  marble  stillness  from  its  paternal  halls.  The  eye 
of  the  mother  that  bore  her,  of  the  friend  that  had 
but  casually  beheld  her,  even  of  the  poor  menial 
that  waited  upon  her,  knew  the  luxury  of  tears. 
All  were  wet  with  that  balm  of  sorrow,  to  overflow 
ing — all  save  mine. 


THE    FATHER.  17 

The  open  grave  had  a  revolting  aspect.  1  could 
not  bear  that  the  form  which  I  had  worshipped,  should 
be  left  to  its  cold  and  hideous  guardianship.  At  the 
hollow  sound  of  the  first  falling  clod,  I  would  fain 
have  leaped  into  the  pit,  and  demanded  her.  But  1 
ruled  myself.  I  committed  her  to  the  frozen  earth, 
without  a  tear.  There  was  a  tremendous  majesty 
in  such  grief.  I  was  a  wonder  to  myself. 

I  returned  to  my  desolated  abode.  The  silence 
that  reigned  there  was  appalling.  My  spirit  sank 
beneath  it,  as  a  stone  goes  down  into  the  depths  of 
ocean,  bearing  the  everlasting  burden  of  its  fathom 
less  tide.  I  sought  the  room  where  I  had  last  seen 
her,  arrayed  in  the  vestments  of  the  tomb.  There 
lay  the  books  which  we  had  read  together.  Their 
pages  bore  the  marks  of  her  pencil.  I  covered  my 
eyes  from  them,  and  turned  away.  I  bowed  down 
to  inhale  the  fragrance  of  her  flowers,  and  felt  that 
they  had  no  right  to  bloom  so  fair,  when  she,  their 
culturer  and  their  queen,  was  blighted.  I  pressed 
my  fingers  upon  the  keys  of  her  piano,  and  started 
back  at  the  mournful  sound  they  made.  I  wander 
ed  to  her  own  apartment.  I  threw  myself  on  the 
couch  where  from  infancy  she  had  slumbered.  I 
trusted  to  have  wept  there.  But  my  grief  was  too 
mighty,  to  be  thus  unchained.  It  disdained  the  relief 
of  tears.  I  seemed  to  rush  as  upon  a  drawn  sword, 
and  still  it  refused  to  pierce  me. 

Yet  all  this  was  when  no  eye  saw  me.     In  the 
presence  of  others,  I  was  like  Mount  Atlas,  bearing 
unmoved  the  stormy  heavens  upon  his  shoulders. 
y     B2 


18  THE    FATHER. 

I  went  forth,  amid  the  jarring  competitions  and 
perpetual  strifes  of  men.  I  adjusted  their  opposing 
interests,  while  I  despised  them  and  their  concerns. 
I  unravelled  their  perplexities.  I  penetrated  their 
subterfuges.  I  exposed  their  duplicity.  I  cut  the 
Gordian  knots  of  their  self-conceit.  I  made  the 
"  crooked  straight,  and  the  rough  places  plain," — 
with  an  energy  that  amazed  them  and  myself.  It 
was  like  that  of  a  spirit,  which  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  flesh.  I  suffered  the  tumult  of  my  soul  to 
breathe  itself  out  in  bursts  of  stormy  declamation. 
I  exerted  the  strength  of  a  giant,  when  it  was  not 
required.  I  scorned  to  balance  power  with  necessi 
ty.  The  calculations  of  prudence,  and  the  devices 
of  cunning,  seemed  equally  pitiful,  and  despicable. 
I  put  forth  the  same  effort  to  crush  an  emmet,  as  to 
uproot  the  oak  of  a  thousand  centuries.  It  was  suf 
ficient  for  me  always  to  triumph.  While  men  mar 
velled  at  the  zeal  with  which  I  served  them,  I  was 
loathing  them  in  my  heart.  I  was  sick  of  their  chi 
canery,  and  their  Sabbathless  rush  after  empty 
honors  and  perishable  dross.  The  whole  world 
seemed  to  me,  "  less  than  nothing,  and  vanity." 
Still,  I  was  sensible  of  neither  toil,  nor  fatigue,  nor 
physical  exhaustion.  I  was  like  one,  who  in  his 
troubled  dream  of  midnight,  treads  on  air,  and  finds 
it  strangely  sustaining  him. 

But  every  night,  I  went  to  my  daughter's  grave. 
I  laid  me  down  there,  in  unutterable  bitterness.  While 
the  stars  looked  coldly  on  me,  I  spoke  to  her  fondly 


THE    FATHER.  19 

and  earnestly,  as  one  who  could  not  be  denied.  I 
said, — "  Angel !  who  art  mine  no  longer,  listen  to 
me.  Thou,  who  art  raised  above  all  tears,  cause 
one  tear  to  moisten  my  burning  brow.  Give  it  to 
me,  as  a  token  that  thou  hearest  me,  that  thou  hast 
not  forgotten  me."  And  the  blasts  of  Winter,  through 
the  leafless  boughs,  mocking  replied, — "  Give  it  to 
me, — Give  it  to  me"  But  I  wept  not.  Ten  days 
and  nights  passed  over  me, — and  still  I  wept  not. 

My  brain  was  heated  to  agony.  The  visual 
nerves  were  scorched  and  withered.  My  heart  was 
parched  and  arid,  as  the  Libyan  desert.  Then  I 
knew  that  the  throne  of  Grief  was  in  the  heart : 
that  though  her  sceptre  may  reach  the  remotest  nerve, 
and  touch  the  minutest  cell  where  the  brain  slum 
bers,  and  perplex  every  ethereal  ambassador  from 
spirit  to  sense, — yet  the  pavilion  where  her  darkest 
dregs  are  wrung  out,  the  laboratory  where  her  con 
suming  fires  are  compounded,  is  the  heart, — the 
heart. 

I  have  implied  that  my  intellect  faltered.  Yet 
every  morning  I  went  to  the  scene  of  my  labors.  I 
put  my  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  caring  not  though  it 
crushed  me.  I  looked  at  men  fixedly  and  haughtily 
with  my  red  eye-balls.  But  I  spoke  no  word  to 
betray  the  flame  feeding  at  my  vitals.  The  heart 
strings  shrivelled  and  broke  before  it,  yet  the  martyr 
dom  was  in  silence. 

Again,  Night  drew  her  sable  curtain,  and  I  sought 
my  daughter's  grave.  Methought,  its  turf-covering 


20  THE    FATHER. 

was  discomposed,  and  some  half-rooted  shrubs  that 
shuddered  and  drooped  when  placed  in  that  drear 
assemblage  of  the  dead,  had  been  trampled  and  bro 
ken.  A  horrible  suspicion  took  possession  of  my 
mind.  I  rushed  to  the  house  of  the  sexton. — "  Has 
any  one  troubled  my  daughter's  grave  ?"  Alarmed 
at  my  vehemence,  he  remained  speechless  and  irre 
solute. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  terror, 
"  who  has  disturbed  my  daughter's  grave."  He 
evaded  my  adjuration,  and  murmured  something 
about  an  injunction  to  secrecy.  With  the  grasp  of 
a  maniac,  I  bore  him  to  an  inner  apartment,  and 
bade  him  satisfy  my  question.  Trembling  at  my 
violence,  he  confessed  that  the  grave  had  been  watch 
ed  for  ten  nights. 

"  Who  has  watched  my  daughter's  grave  ?"  Re 
luctantly  he  gave  me  the  names  of  those  friends, — 
names  forever  graven  upon  my  soul. 

And  so,  for  those  ten  long,  wintry  nights,  so 
dreary  and  interminable,  which  I  had  cast  away 
amid  the  tossings  of  profitless,  delirious,  despairing 
sorrow,  they  had  been  watching,  that  the  repose  of 
that  unsullied  clay  might  remain  unbroken. 

A  new  tide  of  emotion  was  awakened.  I  threw 
myself  down,  as  powerless  as  the  weaned  infant. 
Torrents  of  tears  flowed.  The  tenderness  of  man 
wrought  what  the  severity  of  Heaven  had  failed  to 
produce.  It  was  not  the  earthquake,  nor  the  thun 
der,  nor  the  tempest,  that  subdued  me.  It  was  the 


THE   FATHER.  21 

still,  small  voice.  I  wept  until  the  fountains  of  tears 
failed.  The  relief  of  that  hour  of  weeping,  can  never 
be  shadowed  forth  in  language.  The  prison-house 
of  passionate  agony  was  unlocked.  I  said  to  God  that 
he  was  merciful,  and  I  loved  him  because  my  angel 
lived  in  his  presence.  Since  then,  it  would  seem, 
that  my  heart  has  been  made  better.  Its  aspirations 
are  upward,  whither  she  has  ascended,  and  as  I  tread 
the  devious  path  of  my  pilgrimage,  both  the  sunbeam 
and  the  thorn  point  me  as  a  suppliant  to  the  Re 
deemer  of  Man,  that  I  may  be  at  last  fitted  to  dwell 
with  her  for  ever. 

Hartford,  October  28,  1833. 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 


'  Our  fathers  found  bleak  heath  and  desert  moor, 
Wild  woodland,  and  savannahs  wide  and  waste, — 
Rude  country  of  rude  dwellers." 

SOUTHEY'S  Madoc. 


POSSIBLY  it  may  be  unknown,  except  to  a  few 
antiquarians,  that  the  beautiful  town  of  Oxford,  in 
Massachusetts,  was  originally  a  colony  of  French 
Protestants.  They  first  taught  its  forests  the  sound 
of  the  woodman's  axe,  and  extended  to  its  roving 
and  red-browed  sons,  the  hand  of  amity. 

Wherever  the  Huguenot  character  mingled  in  tKe 
political  formation  of  this  Western  World,  its  infu 
sion  was  bland,  and  salutary.  Industry,  patience, 
cheerful  endurance  of  evil,  ardent  social  affections, 
and  a  piety  firm  but  not  austere,  were  its  distinctive 
features.  In  their  gentle  community,  Age  did  not 
lay  aside  its  sympathies  with  Youth,  or  feel  exiled 
from  its  sweet  companionship.  The  white  hair  of 
wisdom  gave  no  death-signal  to  cheerfulness.  The 
grandsire,  with  his  snowy  temples,  was  still  the  fa 
vorite  and  delighted  associate  of  his  blooming  de 
scendants.  The  religion  from  whose  root  such  fruits 
sprang,  made  it  no  part  of  its  theory  to  dismiss  the 
smile,  or  call  in  moroseness  as  an  adjunct,  or  robe 


24  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

the  Sabbath  in  sable,  as  if  the  Creator  had  marked 
that  consecrated  day  by  a  frown  on  his  works,  in 
stead  of  pronouncing  them  "  very  good."  Still  the 
elements  of  their  piety,  combined  without  sternness 
or  ostentation,  an  inflexible  adherence  to  duty,  and 
a  spirit,  "  faithful  unto  death,  for  conscience  sake." 
The  loss  of  half  a  million  of  such  inhabitants  to 
France,  was  a  consequence  of  the  persecutions  of 
Louis  XIV.  His  long-cherished  intolerance  took  the 
form  of  madness,  in  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of 
Nantz.  The  expulsion  of  multitudes  of  his  most 
unoffending  and  loyal  subjects,  justified  the  strong 
metaphor  of  Queen  Christina, — "  France  is  a  dis 
eased  man,  submitting  to  the  amputation  of  his  limbs, 
to  cure  what  a  gentle  regimen  might  conquer." 
•  The  sufferings  of  the  Protestants  from  the  mis 
guided  zeal  of  their  monarch,  have  left  deep  traces 
on  the  annals  of  History.  Their  worship  of  God 
obstructed,  their  churches  demolished,  their  Pastors 
silenced,  imprisoned,  or  led  to  martyrdom,  an  inso 
lent  soldiery  made  the  inmates  of  their  peaceful 
homes,  licensed  to  every  outrage  by  a  commission 
to  convert  the  heretics,  and  finally  their  children 
torn  from  them,  and  committed  to  the  tutelage  and 
discipline  of  monks,  prepared  them  for  the  fatal  cli 
max, — the  abolition  of  that  Edict  of  Henry  of  Na 
varre,  which,  a  century  before,  had  guarantied  the 
safety  of  their  ancestors.  The  repeal  of  this  $>yal 
act  of  protection,  in  December,  1685,  removed  the 
last  barrier  between  them  and  the  raging  flood  which 


LEGEND   OF    OXFORD.  5 

threatened  to  overwhelm  them.  Every  hour  thfey 
expected  a  repetition  of  the  horrors  of  St.  Bartholo 
mew. 

Flight  from  the  beloved  land  of  their  birth,  seem 
ed  the  only  alternative.  Even  to  this  painful  resort, 
obstacles  were  opposed  by  the  despot,  who  forgot  that 
one  requisition  of  a  king  was  to  be  the  father  of  his 
people.  Soldiers  were  stationed  to  intercept  their 
progress,  and  prevent  their  embarkation.  They 
were  driven  literally,  to  take  shelter  in  "  dens,  and 
caves  of  the  earth."  Fathers  were  forced  to  immure 
their  families  in  damp  and  pestilental  caverns,  whence 
they  issued,  the  very  shadows  of  themselves.  Deli 
cate  females,  whom  the  winds  had  never  roughly 
visited,  wandered,  half-clad,  amid  the  chills  of  win 
ter,  or  implored  at  the  peasant's  hut  a  temporary 
refuge.  Mothers,  in  the  recesses  of  dreary  forests, 
hushed  their  wailing  infants,  lest  their  cries  of  mise 
ry  should  guide  the  search  of  some  brutal  captor. 

The  sea-ports  were  thronged  with  fugitives,  in 
every  guise  and  garb  of  wretchedness.  Rochelle 
for  weeks  overflowed  with  the  exiles  of  Languedoc 
and  Roussillon,  of  Gascoigne  and  Dauphine.  There 
might  be  seen  the  aged,  with  hurrying,  tottering 
steps, — the  matron,  matured  in  the  lap  of  indulgence, 
— with  crowds  of  wandering  and  miserable  babes. 
They  came  under  covert  of  midnight,  or  drenched 
by  the  storm :  neither  fatigue,  nor  menace,  deterred 
them.  "  Let  us  go,"  they  exclaimed,  with  frantic 
gestures.  "  We  leave  to  you  our  pleasant  homes  and 
C 


26  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

our  vineyards.  Let  us  go,  with  our  wives  and  our 
little  ones  ;  we  know  not  whither, — But  in  God's 
name,  let  us  go."  The  cry  of  Israel,  in  the  house 
of  Egyptian  bondage,  seemed  to  re-echo  through 
the  beautiful  vales  of  France  :  though  no  majestic 
prophet  adjured  the  ruthless  tyrant,  in  the  name  of 
the  Lord, — "  Let  my  people  go,  that  they  may 
serve  me." 

Hundreds  of  thousands  conquered  every  obstacle, 
and  effected  their  escape.  Favor  in  foreign  lands 
was  extended  to  them,  and  that  pity  was  shown  by 
strangers,  which  their  own  kindred  and  king  de 
nied. 

Our  New  World  profited  by  this  prodigality  of 
the  Old.  Those  whom  she  cast  out  as  "  despised, 
broken  vessels,  in  whom  there  was  no  pleasure," 
added  cement,  and  symmetry  and  strength  to  our 
magnificent  temple  of  freedom.  Their  descendants, 
scattered  and  incorporated  widely  among  the  people 
of  these  United  States,  still  bear  the  mantle  of  an 
cestral  virtue.  It  would  seem  that  they  inherit  some 
share  in  the  blessing  of  their  fathers,  who  going  forth, 
like  the  Patriarch, "  not  knowing  whither  they  went, 
found  their  faith  accounted  as  righteousness." 

It  was  in  the  depth  of  the  winter  of  1686,  that  a 
ship  tossed  by  contending  storms,  and  repeatedly 
repulsed  from  the  bleak  New-England  coast,  was 
seen  slowly  entering  the  harbor  of  Boston.  It  was 
thronged  with  Huguenot  families,  who,  haggard  from 
the  sufferings  of  their  protracted  voyage,  were  eager 
to  obtain  refuge  and  repose. 


LEGEND    OF  OXFORD.  27 

Scarcely  more  than  three-score  years  had  elapsed 
since  the  footsteps  of  the  Pilgrim-Fathers  first  ex 
plored  the  dreary  rocks  and  trackless  wilds  of  Ply 
mouth.  Persecution  for  righteousness*  sake,  the 
abandonment  of  their  own  loved  land,  their  perils 
on  the  ocean,  and  in  the  wilderness,  those  toils,  pri 
vations  and  hardships,  with  which  they  gladly  pur 
chased  "  freedom  to  worship  God,"  were  still  within 
the  memory  of  the  living.  The  echo  of  those  hymns 
of  "  lofty  cheer,  with  which  they  shook  the  depths 
of  the  desert  gloom,"  was  still  treasured  in  the  bo 
soms,  and  swelled  in  the  domestic  sanctuary,  of 
their  descendants.  A  class  of  sympathies  was  there 
fore  in  active  exercise,  which  insured  the  welcome 
of  the  tempest-tost  aliens.  The  few  hoary-headed 
pilgrims  who  survived,  could  not  fail  to  regard  with 
peculiar  emotion,  those  spirits  with  whom  their  own 
had  strong  affinity. 

This  colony  of  Huguenots  was  attended  by  their 
Pastor,  the  Reverend  Pierre  Daille,  a  descendant  of 
the  learned  John  Daille,  distinguished  as  an  author, 
and  especially  by  the  work,  entitled  "  An  Apology 
for  the  Reformed  Churches."  Father  Daille,  as  he 
was  styled  by  his  flock,  more  from  the  filial  love 
they  bore  him,  than  from  any  seniority  of  age,  was 
a  man  of  exquisite  sensibility,  tempered  by  the  meek 
ness  of  the  Gospel  which  he  preached,  and  whose 
pure  precepts  he  consistently  exemplified.  His  de 
portment  evinced  that  true  politeness  which  springs 
from  regard  for  the  feelings  of  others,  and  a  bene- 


2S  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

nevolent  desire  to  add  to  their  happiness.  Hence  he 
invariably  conciliated  those  with  whom  he  associated, 
and  the  use  he  made  of  the  influence  thus  acquired, 
was  to  call  forth  the  better  feelings  of  their  nature, 
to  elevate  their  standard  of  principle  or  practice, 
and  to  recommend  the  religion  of  Jesus  his  Master. 
Among  those  who  gave  to  him,  and  his  people,  the 
warm  welcome  of  the  Western  World,  it  was  not 
surprising  that  he  should  discover  a  delightful  reci 
procity  in  Elliot,  the  venerable  apostle  of  the  Indians. 
Laying  aside  the  classical  superiority  which  he  at 
tained  at  the  University  of  Cambridge,  in  his  native 
land,  he  had  been  the  patient  translator  of  the  Scrip 
tures,  into  the  barbarous  dialect  of  the  sons  of  the 
forest.  There  was  in  his  demeanor,  that  perfect 
gentleness,  and  self-renunciation,  which  inspires  even 
the  savage  breast  with  love.  Though  at  this  time 
82  years  of  age,  he  still  continued  his  mission  of 
mercy  to  those  destitute  beings,  often  partaking  of 
their  coarse  fare,  and  stretching  himself,  at  night, 
upon  the  cold,  earthern  floors  of  their  miserable 
habitations.  But  amid  the  self-denying  calmness 
of  his  deportment,  those  who  looked  deeply  into  his 
eye,  might  discern  some  cast  of  that  quiet  and  deter 
mined  courage,  which  had  so  often  quelled  the  fiercest 
chieftains,  and  ruled  those  paroxysms  of  anger  which 
threatened  his  death,  by  the  unmoved  reply, — "  I  am 
about  God's  work : — he  will  take  care  of  me." 

At  one  of  his  early  interviews  with  Father  Daille, 
he  introduced  a  red-browed  man,  on  whose  arm  he 


LEGEND    OF     OXFORD.  29 

leaned  : — "  I  present  to  you,"  said  he,  "  my  brother 
of  the  forest,  and  my  son  in  the  faith."  This  was 
Hiacomes,  his  first  Indian  convert  to  the  Gospel, 
whom  he  had  himself  ordained  as  Pastor  over  a  na 
tive  church  in  Martha's  Vineyard,  and  whose  exam 
ple  and  ministrations  justified  that  high  confidence. 
He  was  a  man  of  commanding  presence, — grave, 
slow  of  speech,  and  so  erect  and  vigorous,  that  it 
was  difficult  to  believe  that  almost  fourscore  winters 
had  passed  over  him.  With  them  also  came  the 
Reverend  John  Mayhew,  whose  lofty  forehead,  and 
intellectual  features,  were  lighted  up  with  an  undy 
ing  benevolence  for  the  poor  aborigines ;  the  accom 
plished  Dudley,  recently  appointed  to  the  office  of 
Governor,  and  pleased,  perhaps  proud,  of  that "  brief 
authority ;"  Michael  Wigglesworth,  the  allegorical 
poet,  with  the  most  unpoetical  name  ;  and  Increase 
Mather,  the  stately  President  of  Harvard  College, 
conscious  of  the  dignity  that  he  sustained,  and  full 
of  power  to  sustain  it  nobly.  His  voice,  which  in 
the  fervid  denunciations  of  pulpit  eloquence,  was 
said  to  have  the  force  of  thunder,  adapted  itself  me 
lodiously  to  the  tones  of  conversation,  arid  the  ex 
pressions  of  friendship.  He  was  sometimes  accom 
panied  by  his  son,  the  future  author  of  the  "  Mag- 
nalia  Christi  Americana,"  then  a  young  man  of  23, 
in  whose  intelligent  countenance  and  restless  glance 
might  be  traced  that  love  of  knowledge  which  neu 
tralizes  the  toil  of  the  severest  study, — that  latent 
superstition  which  was  to  spring  up  as  an  earnest 
C  2 


30  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

advocate  of  the  diabolical  delusions  at  Salem,  and 
that  deep-rooted  benevolence  which  adopted  even  in 
boyhood,  the  motto,  "  never  to  be  in  company  with 
any  person,  without  endeavoring  to  do  him  some 
good."  The  acquaintance  and  friendship  of  such 
men,  and  others,  whom  our  limits  will  not  allow 
us  to  mention,  breathed  with  soothing  and  strength 
ening  influence  over  the  hearts  of  the  exiles  from 
France. 

Boston,  at  the  period  of  which  we  speak,  exhibit 
ed  none  of  the  rudiments  of  its  present  magnificence. 
Its  population  of  between  3  and  4,000,  were  princi 
pally  intent  on  the  necessary  means  of  subsistence. 
No  lofty  spires  pointed  in  their  glory  of  architecture 
to  Him,  whose  pavilion  is  above  the  cloud,  and  whose 
dwelling  is  in  the  humblest  heart.  No  liberally  en 
dowed  institutions,  no  mansions  of  surpassing  splen 
dor,  then  evinced  that  like  ancient  Tyre,  her  "  mer 
chants  were  princes,  and  her  traffickers  the  honorable 
of  the  earth."  Yet  even  then,  in  the  intellectual 
cast  of  her  sons,  in  her  deep  and  sober  reverence  for 
knowledge,  in  her  establishment  of  an  University 
almost  coeval  with  the  first  breath  of  her  own  po 
litical  existence,  might  be  seen  those  elements  of 
thought  and  action,  which  have  since  made  her  to 
America,  what  Athens  was  to  Greece.  The  hospi 
tality  with  which  she  still  detains  the  step  of  the 
traveller,  and  quickens  his  admiration  of  her  beauti 
ful  localities,  was  at  this  early  period  in  vigorous 
exercise.  It  had  somewhat  of  that  added  fervor, 


LEGEND    OF   OXFORD.  31 

which  a  rude,  primeval  state  of  society  induces, 
where  community  of  danger  inspires  strong  fellow- 
feelings,  and  simplicity  of  life  banishes  the  ceremony 
that  chills  the  heart,  and  the  luxury  that  renders  it 
imbecile. 

During  the  winter  that  the  Huguenots  thus  enjoy- 
ed  shelter  and  sympathy  from  their  new-found 
brethren,  preparations  were  in  progress  for  their 
obtaining  a  more  permanent  home.  These  negotia 
tions  eventually  terminated  in  the  purchase  of  a 
tract  of  land,  in  the  county  of  Worcester,  about 
thirty  miles  from  Boston,  recommended  both  by 
native  fertility,  and  beauty  of  situation.  The  stream, 
whose  line  of  crystal  variegates  with  its  graceful 
windings  those  vales  of  verdure,  received  from  the 
emigrants  the  name  of  French  River ;  but  why 
they  gave  their  new  residence  the  appellation  of 
Oxford,  in  preference  to  one  fraught  with  the  mel 
lifluent  tones  and  romantic  recollections  of  their  own 
delightful  land,  history  does  not  inform  us.  Perhaps 
at  the  moment  of  baptizing  this  lodge  in  the  wilder 
ness,  their  torn  hearts  wished  to  lave  in  the  waters 
of  Lethe,  the  hand  that  had  wounded  them.  Per 
haps  they  deemed  it  wise,  to  stifle  emotions,  which 
were  too  tender  and  torturing  for  their  peace.  Or 
perhaps,  some  claim  of  unrecorded  gratitude  prompt 
ed  the  name  of  their  adoption.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that  Oxford,  or,  as  some  traditions  assert,  New-Ox 
ford,  was  the  nomenclature  of  their  infant  settlement. 

At  the  earliest  indications  of  the  broken  sway  of 


32  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

winter  the  more  hardy  of  the  colonists,  went  to  take 
possession  of  the  territory,  and  to  erect  temporary 
habitations  for  their  families.  Spring  had  some 
what  advanced,  ere  the  more  delicate  part  of  the 
community  followed.  The  young  turf  was  spring 
ing,  and  the  silver  leaf  of  the  willow  had  hung  out 
its  banner. 

On  the  hardships  and  privations  appointed  them, 
they  entered  with  a  patience  and  cheerfulness  which 
nothing  could  subdue.  They  rejoiced  to  find  a 
temple  where  God  might  be  worshipped,  free  from 
the  tyranny  of  man,  though  that  temple  was  amid 
forests,  which  the  step  of  civilization  had  never 
explored.  Those  who  had  been  nurtured  amid  the 
genial  breathing  of  a  luxuriant  clime,  who  had  im 
bibed  the  fragrance  of  the  vine-flower  in  their  infant 
slumbers,  went  forth  to  daily  labor,  amid  tangled 
thickets,  where  the  panther  and  wolf  howled,  and 
nightly  returned  to  their  rude  cabins,  with  a  smile 
of  gratitude,  "  an  everlasting .  hymn  within  their 
souls." 

Among  the  early  cares  of  the  colonists,  was  the 
erection  of  a  fort,  as  a  place  of  refuge,  in  case  of 
an  attack  from  the  native  dwellers  of  the  forest. 
They  found  themselves  borderers  upon  the  territory 
of  a  powerful  tribe,  and  stories  of  the  cruelty  of 
Indian  warfare,  which  had  occupied  a  prominent 
place  among  the  winter  evening  tales  of  their  friends 
in  Boston,  had  made  deep  impression  upon  the  minds 
of  an  imaginative  people.  Political  motives,  there- 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  33 

fore,  as  well  as  their  own  peaceful  and  pitying  dis 
positions,  led  them,  while  they  stood  prepared  for 
evil,  to  make  every  effort  to  soothe  and  conciliate 
their  savage  neighbors.  They  extended  to  them, 
at  every  opportunity,  the  simple  rites  of  hospitality, 
and  their  bland  and  gentle  manners  apparently  won 
the  friendship  of  those  proud,  yet  susceptible  abo 
rigines. 

In  the  lapse  of  a  year  after  the  arrival  of  the 
Huguenots,  their  settlement  began  to  assume  the 
features  of  regularity.  Its  simple  abodes  equalled 
the  number  of  families,  and  an  air  of  neatness  and 
even  of  comfort,  pervaded  them.  Each  dwelling 
had  a  small  spot,  allotted  to  horticulture,  from  whose 
broken  surface,  newly  exposed  to  the  free  action  of 
the  sun,  the  seeds  of  France  might  be  seen  timidly- 
emerging,  and  striving  to  become  naturalized  in  a 
foreign  soil.  In  a  large  field,  held  as  common 
property,  the  maize  had  already  appeared  in  straight 
and  stately  ranks,  its  intervals  enlivened  by  the  va 
ried  hues  of  the  bright  bean-blossom.  Lycurgus 
might  here  have  seen  illustrated  his  favorite  plan 
of  the  Laconian  brotherhood,  where  without  conten 
tion,  each  should  give  his  labor  to  the  earth,  and 
without  jealousy  apportion  its  treasures.  The  natives, 
seeking  for  game  in  the  neighboring  thickets,  fre 
quently  paused  to  regard  the  movements  of  the  new 
settlers.  But  it  did  not  escape  their  observation, 
that  the  simple  expressions  of  amity  with  which 
their  arrival  had  been  welcomed,  soon  subsided  into 


34  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

a  reserved  deportment,  varied  occasionally  by  marks 
of  stupid  wonder,  or  decided  aversion.  At  length 
the  son  of  the  forest  utterly  avoided  the  habitations 
of  his  white  neighbors,  where  he  had  sometimes 
accepted  a  shelter  for  the  night,  or  a  covert  from  the 
storm.  Still  he  might  be  seen  with  a  dejected  brow, 
lingering  near  their  cultivated  fields,  and  regarding 
their  more  skilful  operations  of  agriculture,  with  an 
ill-defined  emotion.  This  was  by  some  explained 
as  the  result  of  envy,  by  others  of  hatred,  infused 
by  the  powaws,  who  continually  impressed  the  idea 
that  these  pale  intruders  would  eventually  root  the 
red  man  out  of  his  father's  land.  Yet  these  symp 
toms  of  disaffection,  however  variously  interpreted, 
were  ominous ;  and  the  resolution  was  unanimous, 
to  preserve  the  most  conciliatory  deportment,  yet  to 
take  every  precaution  for  safety,  and  not  to  go  un 
armed  even  to  daily  labor.  Thus  the  musket  was 
the  companion  of  the  implements  of  rural  toil,  as 
in  the  days  of  Nehemiah  the  restorers  of  Jerusalem 
wrought  "  every  man  with  one  hand  upon  the  wall, 
and  with  the  other  held  his  spear,  having  his  sword 
girded  by  his  side." 

It  was  after  sunset  on  a  summer's  day  in  1687, 
as  the  colonists  were  returning  from  the  field,  that 
a  party  of  natives  was  observed  to  approach,  appa 
rently  with  an  intention  of  cutting  off  their  commu 
nication  with  their  abodes.  Continuing  to  reject 
every  attempt  at  parley,  and  bearing  on  their  dark 
brows  the  sullen  purpose  of  vengeance,  they  passed 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  35 

slowly  onward  in  an  oblique  direction,  as  if  to  obtain 
possession  of  the  rising  grounds  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  the  fort.  A  momentary  council  was  held 
among  the  emigrants,  who  were  compelled  to  per 
ceive  that  their  destruction  was  meditated.  Conscious 
that  they  embodied  the  effective  strength  of  the  colony, 
and  that  on  their  present  decision  its  existence  de 
pended,  they  were  anxious  to  avoid  rashness,  and 
yet  not  to  testify  such  regard  for  their  personal 
safety,  as  might  give  to  the  watchful  foe,  an  appear 
ance  of  timidity.  They  observed  that  they  were 
greatly  outnumbered,  but  that  only  a  few  of  their 
enemies  were  provided  with  fire-arms,  the  remainder 
carrying  bows  and  tomahawks.  Three  muskets 
were  immediately  fired  in  rapid  succession,  accord 
ing  to  a  previous  agreement,  as  a  signal  for  the  fe 
males  and  children  to  take  refuge  in  the  fort,  if 
their  husbands  and  fathers  should  be  attacked  at  a 
distance  from  home.  Then  forming  into  a  solid  body, 
they  marched  onward  with  a  firm  step,  having  their 
pieces  loaded,  but  not  deeming  it  expedient  to  hazard 
the  first  assault.  Each  silently  revolved  the  deso 
lation  that  would  ensue,  upon  their  fall,  to  the  infant 
settlement,  the  peaceful  fire-side,  and  those  dearer 
than  life. 

Yet  with  unshrinking  bravery  they  approached 
their  terrible  opponents,  and  in  silent  aspirations  in 
voked  that  Being,  with  whom  it  is  "  nothing  to  save, 
whether  by  many,  or  by  them  who  have  no  help." 
The  shifting  lines  of  the  enemy  became  stationary, 


36  LEGEND    OF   OXFORD. 

having  gained  the  brow  of  an  acclivity,  where  were 
several  large  trees,  behind  which  they  could  be  shel 
tered,  according  to  their  mode  of  warfare.  Many 
of  the  warriors  were  already  stationed  behind  these 
fortifications,  while  the  remainder  intercepted  the 
path  along  which  the  Huguenots  were  advancing 
toward  their  homes.  This  post,  though  chosen  by 
these  sons  of  nature  without  knowledge  of  tactics, 
was  highly  advantageous.  Their  fire  in  front,  upon 
those  who  ascended  the  hill,  would  be  greatly  an 
noying  ;  on  the  right,  their  marksmen  sheltered  by 
trees  might  take  deadly  aim  with  little  danger  of 
retaliation,  while  on  the  left,  a  thick  forest,  obstruct 
ed  by  underwood,  promised  to  baffle  the  flight  of 
fugitives.  In  the  rear,  at  the  distance  of  half  a  mile, 
lay  the  fort,  where  they  might,  after  vanquishing 
their  protectors,  wreak  on  the  helpless  ones  the  ven 
geance  of  extermination.  Already  they  viewed  the 
objects  of  their  hatred  as  within  their  grasp,  and  a 
murmur  of  savage  joy  ran  through  their  ranks,  pre 
paratory  to  the  yell  of  battle.  They  silently  singled 
out  their  victims  for  the  triumph  and  for  the  stake, 
and  deemed  the  blood  of  their  invaders  would  be  a 
just  and  grateful  offering  to  the  spirits  of  their 
fathers,  angry,  even  amid  fields  of  light,  that  their 
sons  could  tamely  resign  their  heritage.  The  Chris 
tians  had  begun  to  ascend  the  hill.  They  were  within 
thirty  paces  of  those  who  sought  their  destruction. 
Yet  they  paused,  ere  the  fatal  conflict  should  send 
into  eternity  they  knew  not  how  many  souls.  Every 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  37 

head  was  uncovered,  and  every  knee  bent  to  the 
earth.  In  one  deep,  solemn  response,  their  mingled 
voices  broke  forth, — "  Deliver  us,  O  Jehovah  !  from 
the  hand  of  the  unrighteous,  and  cruel  man :  for 
thou  art  our  hope,  O  God !  thou  art  our  trust  from 
our  youth."  They  rose  and  advanced,  with  souls 
prepared  either  for  victory  or  death.  But  the  perilous 
enterprise  was  arrested  by  a  mysterious  form,  rushing 
from  the  dark  forest  on  the  left  of  their  path.  He 
seemed  of  more  than  mortal  height,  and  his  flowing 
robes  were  girt  about  his  loins,  with  a  broad  blood- 
red  cincture.  On  his  head  was  a  resemblance  of 
the  ancient  helmet,  surmounted  with  lofty  and  sable 
plumes.  In  his  right  hand  a  sword  flashed  with  in 
effable  brightness,  and  his  left  bore  a  blazing  torch, 
which  illumined  his  pale  countenance,  yet  faded 
beneath  the  lightning  of  his  awful  eye.  He  exclaim 
ed,  as  he  approached  the  little  flock  of  Christians, — 
"  The  sword  of  the  Lord  and  of  Gideon  !" 

Pointing  onward  with  his  dazzling  blade,  they 
followed  him  mechanically,  as  if  the  shade  of  Conde 
or  Coligny  had  arisen  from  the  grave  to  lead  them 
to  victory.  The  Indians  stood  as  if  transfixed  with 
horror,  until  this  mysterious  being  confronted  them 
face  to  face. 

There  was  a  pause  of  fearful  silence,  and  then  he 
uttered,  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  shake  the  hills,  a 
few  terrible  words  in  an  unknown  tongue.  But  they 
were  intelligible  to  the  enemy,  who  were  in  an  in 
stant  overwhelmed  with  astonishment  and  fear.  At 
D 


38  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

the  charmed  words,  as  if  spell-bound,  the  bow,  stretch 
ed  to  its  utmost  tension,  dropt  the  trembling  arrow, 
and  the  uplifted  tomahawk  sank  from  the  hand  of 
the  nerveless  warrior.  The  whole  body  of  savages 
turned  in  flight.  Still  a  voice  of  thunder  arrested 
their  breathless  speed. 

"  Stay ! — Hear  what  the  Great  Spirit  saith.  If 
ye  lift  your  hand  against  one  of  these  my  servants, 
if  ye  hurt  a  hair  of  the  head  of  any  belonging  unto 
them,  your  flesh  shall  be  given  as  meat  to  the  beasts 
of  the  earth,  and  to  the  fowls  of  heaven,  and  your 
souls  shall  never  enter  the  abodes  of  your  fathers. — 
Remember, — and  begone  !" 

Scarcely  was  the  permission  accorded,  ere  the 
surrounding  hills  were  covered  with  the  flying  fugi 
tives.  Their  native  agility,  quickened  by  terror, 
regarded  no  obstacle  of  rock,  thicket,  or  stream. 
The  majestic  being  reared  high  his  flaming  torch,  and 
beheld  their  departure.  Not  one  turned  to  look  back, 
so  deep  was  their  dread  of  that  fearful  countenance, 
and  tremendous  tone.  Bending  his  piercing  glance 
upon  those  whom  he  had  rescued,  he  read  the  most 
intense  traces  of  gratitude,  astonishment,  and  awe, 
and  heard  the  repeated  yet  half-suppressed  inquiry, 
— "Who  is  our  deliverer?" 

A  voice  of  majesty  answered : 

"  I  am  the  pillar  of  cloud,  and  the  pillar  of  flame, 
sent  before  you  in  this  wilderness,  by  the  Eternal. 
Gaze  not  thus,  attempt  not  to  pursue  my  path,  lest, 
like. the  wretches  who  prest  upon  the  base  of  Sinai, 


LEGEND    OF  OXFORD.  39 

when  Jehovah  honored  it,  ye  perish  amid  blackness, 
and  darkness,  and  tempest.  Veil  your  eyes,  and 
bow  your  faces  in  the  dust,  while  I  pass  on  my 
way." 

They  obeyed,  and  from  a  greater  distance,  the 
same  deep  tone  was  heard  to  command — 

"  When  you  reach  your  homes,  and  find  those 
eyes  tearful  with  joy,  which  might  have  been  closed 
in  blood,  give  glory  to  the  God  of  Israel." 

When  the  ransomed  band  raised  their  heads  from 
the  earth,  some  thought  that  they  saw  the  firma 
ment  glowing  as  with  a  path  of  living  flame.  But 
others  said  it  was  the  ray  of  the  full  moon,  which 
lifting  from  the  horizon  her  broad  disk  of  pale  gold, 
tinged  the  mountain-tops  and  forests  with  the  same 
hue,  then  gradually  faded  into  silver,  as  a  bride 
covers  her  heightened  complexion  with  a  snowy  veil. 
The  extreme  excitement  of  this  sudden  danger  and 
unaccountable  deliverance,  did  not  permit  the  colo 
nists  to  discover,  until  their  arrival  at  their  habita 
tions,  that  one  of  their  number  was  missing.  Then, 
the  wife  of  Laurens,  holding  her  babe  in  her  arms, 
was  seen  vainly  inquiring  for  her  husband. 

They  explored  the  paths  which  had  been  traversed, 
they  returned  to  the  field  where  they  had  labored. 
But  no  trace  was  to  be  found,  save  his  cartridge-box, 
lying  near  the  spot  where  he  had  toiled.  It  was 
then  evident  that  he  had  not  been  with  them  in  their 
scene  of  peril,  and  dismay  marked  every  counte 
nance.  Conjecture  was  busy  in  her  darkest  forms 


40  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

among  tender  and  apprehensive  spirits,  while  the 
effective  strength  of  the  colony  gathered  in  consult 
ation.  The  boldest  proposed  immediate  pursuit,  and 
reclaiming  the  captive  by  force  of  arms,  during  the 
season  of  consternation  which  then  prevailed  among 
the  Indians.  The  more  cautious  suggested  the  dan 
ger  of  invading  their  territory  with  such  inferiority 
of  numbers,  as  might  involve  not  only  their  own 
destruction,  but  the  extinction  of  the  colony.  The 
result  of  their  council,  was  to  send  an  embassy  to 
Boston,  requesting  the  Governor  to  demand  of  the 
Indian  king  their  captive  brother,  or  to  grant  them 
military  aid  in  effecting  his  rescue. 

A  day  of  intense  anxiety  was  endured  in  that  lit 
tle  settlement.  But  on  the  ensuing  morning,  ere  the 
sun  had  dispersed  the  cloud  of  vapor  that  encom 
passed  the  valley,  a  shout  of  joy  burst  wildly  from 
many  voices.  The  lost  brother  had  been  discovered 
hasting  toward  his  home.  Only  a  short  interval 
transpired,  ere  he  was  surrounded  by  a  throng  of 
kindred  and  friends,  welcoming  him  with  wondering 
rapture,  and  demanding  his  adventures.  His  heart 
was  full,  and  his  lip  trembled  as  he  spoke. 

"  When  we  departed  from  the  field,  after  our  last 
day's  labor,  I  had  not  proceeded  far  in  your  compa 
ny,  before  I  discovered  that  my  cartridge-box  was 
left  behind.  Without  mentioning  the  circumstance, 
I  ran  to  fetch  it,  expecting  to  rejoin  you,  ere  I  should 
be  missed.  As  I  leaped  the  inclosure,  I  received  a 
blow  on  the  head  from  an  Indian,  who  was  lurking 


LEGEND     OF    OXFORD.  41 

there.  When  I  had  partially  recovered  my  senses, 
1  endeavored  to  arise,  but  found  myself  in  the  power 
of  four  natives,  who  had  deprived  me  of  my  weapons. 
With  threatening  gestures,  they  hurried  me  onward. 
A  great  part  of  the  night  we  travelled,  through  al 
most  impenetrable  woods.  Then  they  halted,  and 
a  fire  was  kindled.  They  kindly  offered  me  a  por 
tion  of  the  rude  viands  on  which  they  fed.  Then 
they  lay  down  to  sleep,  after  pinioning  me  securely, 
and  appointing  a  sentinel,  with  a  loaded  musket. 
Soon  they  fell  into  slumber ;  but  for  me,  though  sore 
ly  wearied,  there  was  no  forgetfulness.  The  flame, 
sometimes  blazing  high,  then  suddenly  declining, 
cast  a  wavering  light  upon  the  grim  faces  and  dis 
hevelled  locks  of  those  whose  captive  I  was,  whose 
victim  I  might  soon  be.  Their  athletic  limbs,  stretch 
ed  supinely,  gave  evidence  of  great  strength,  while 
their  dark,  red  brows,  distorted  in  dreams,  seemed 
as  if  the  Spirit  of  Evil  had  visibly  set  his  seal  there. 
When,  sickening  at  the  scene,  I  looked  upward,  there 
was  the  full,  cloudless  moon,  gilding  the  crest  of  the 
wide  forest,  and  gliding  down  its  deep  arches,  to  visit 
the  earth,  like  the  eye  of  Heaven,  beholding  a  world 
of  sin,  itself  continuing  pure. 

But  I  could  not  raise  my  thoughts  in  the  sublime 
offices  of  devotion.  They  hovered  wildly  around 
this  beloved  spot,  and  her  who,  I  knew,  was  sleep 
less  for  my  sake.  I  remembered  you  all,  my  friends, 
and  fancied  that  I  heard  your  voices,  and  saw  your 
search  for  the  lost  one.  Then  it  seemed  as  if  an 
D  2 


42  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

unearthly  might  inspired  me,  and  I  believed  that  I 
could  destroy  my  foes,  and  pass  through  their  blood 
to  my  home,  and  to  you.  Then,  attempting  to  start 
up,  my  pinioned  limbs  painfully  admonished  me,  and 
I  grieve  to  say,  that  the  prayer  with  which  I  strove 
to  solace  myself,  was  more  in  bitterness,  than  in 
humble  trust. 

Suddenly,  the  trampling  of  many  feet  destroyed 
my  reverie.  A  body  of  Indians  approached,  hastily 
and  in  disorder.  They  conversed  eagerly  with  my 
captors,  in  their  own  language.  I  imagined,  by  their 
wild  gestures,  that  they  were  detailing  some  warlike 
expedition,  and  a  horrible  suspicion  took  hold  of  me. 
I  feared  that  they  had  fallen  like  wolves  upon  our 
peaceful  fold,  and  shuddered  lest  I  might  discover  on 
their  raiment,  stains  of  the  blood  that  was  most  dear 
to  me.  At  every  change  of  attitude,  my  straining 
eyes  followed  with  terror,  lest  they  should  display 
some  fair-haired  scalp.  From  their  impassioned  ac 
tion,  I  could  gain  nothing,  save  broken  delineations 
of  some  conflict,  in  which  the  madness  of  astonish 
ment  predominated. 

A  prey  to  the  most  afflicting  suspense,  I  was  hur 
ried  onward  to  the  residence  of  their  king.  It  was 
surrounded  by  a  number  of  dwellings,  constructed 
in  their  arbor-like  manner  and  thatched  with  mat 
ting. 

There  I  saw,  in  the  midst  of  a  few  warriors,  the 
king  of  the  Nipmucks  and  Narragansetts.  He  was 
tall,  with  a  coronet  of  white  feathers  on  his  head, 


LEGEND    OF   OXFORD.  43 

and  a  grave  and  noble  countenance.  He  was  in 
conversation  with  an  aged  man,  whose  eye  was 
fixed  and  severe.  This  was  the  ancient  prophet, 
greatly  reverenced  by  the  surrounding  tribes.  After 
the  large  party  of  Indians  had  related  their  story 
with  strong  gesticulation,  my  captors  led  me  for 
ward,  and  the  king  regarded  me  with  a  penetrating 
glance. 

"  Hast  thou  shed  the  blood  of  Indians  ?"  he  in 
quired.  I  answered  in  the  negative,  and  added  that 
we  were  a  peaceful  people,  considering  all  men  as 
our  brethren.  He  stood  for  some  time  in  silence, 
gravely  scrutinizing  me.  Then  he  addressed  the 
prophet,  still  speaking  in  English. 

"  Seest  thou  cause,  why  this  prisoner  should  not 
be  set  at  liberty  ?" 

"  Seest  thou  cause  /" — exclaimed  the  old  man 
indignantly,  and  extending  his  hand  in  rhetorical 
action.  "  The  cause  is  on  the  sky. — It  hath  told  thee 
in  thunder,  that  wherever  the  foot  of  the  pale  race 
comes,  the  red  man  must  perish.  The  cause  is 
written  on  the  earth, — in  the  blood  of  our  warriors. 
It  is  upon  the  air, — in  the  red  blaze  of  our  wigwams. 
And  thou  art  a  king  of  the  Narragansetts,  and 
dost  ask  of  me  if  there  is  any  cause  why  a  white 
man  should  die  ?" 

"  Think  not  that  I  forget  the  slaughter  of  my  peo 
ple,"  said  the  king : — "  But  they  were  the  hands  of 
Englishmen,  that  dropped  with  their  blood.  What 
have  this  man,  or  his  brethren,  done  1  They  are  of 


44  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

another  race.  They  came  not  hither  to  waste  us. 
They  only  mark  furrows  upon  the  green  earth,  and 
the  corn  rises.  I  myself  have  been  in  their  dwell 
ings,  but  not  as  a  king.  I  went  thither  as  the  fox, 
and  they  were  before  me  like  doves,  without  guile. 
I  was  weary,  and  they  spread  for  me  a  bed.  They 
believed  that  I  slumbered.  But  my  eye,  like  the 
eagle's,  was  upon  all  their  ways.  They  spake  no 
evil  of  Indians.  No — in  their  prayers  they  asked 
good  things  for  us,  of  their  Great  Spirit.  There  is 
no  bitterness  in  their  hearts,  towards  red  men.  Son 
of  Wisdom,  why  should  we  lift  our  hand  against  the 
innocent  ?" 

"  Thou  art  deceived,  son  of  Philip !"  answered 
the  Prophet.  "  They  are  moles,  mining  around  thine 
habitation.  Their  path  is  in  silence  and  in  darkness, 
and  thy  heart  is  simple  as  the  babe.  Ere  thou  art 
aware,  thou  shalt  struggle  like  the  fish  in  the  net, 
and  who  can  deliver  theel  The  crested  snake 
cometh  forth  boldly,  and  the  poisonous  adder  work- 
eth  her  way  beneath  the  matted  grass.  Are  they 
not  both  the  offspring  of  the  deadly  serpent  ?  This 
man,  and  his  brethren,  and  they  who  have  long 
slaughtered  us,  are  all  of  one  race.  They  are  but 
the  white  foam  of  that  ocean,  which  the  Great  Spirit 
hath  troubled  in  his  wrath.  Art  thou  the  son  of 
Philip,  standing  still,  till  its  billows  sweep  thee, 
and  thy  nation,  away  ?  That  lion-hearted  monarch 
was  not  so.  Rivers  of  blood  flowed  before  him  in 
battle.  Even  now,  his  soul  is  angry  at  the  sight  of 


LEGEND    OP   OXFORD.  45 

white  men.  Last  night,  in  visions,  it  stood  beside 
me.  Its  brow  was  like  thine,  O  king,  but  frowns 
of  vengeance  made  it  terrible.  His  eye  was  dark 
like  thine,  but  the  lightning  of  the  brave  made  its 
glance  awful.  His  voice  was  hoarse  and  hollow, 
as  if  it  rose  from  the  sepulchre.  Ice  entered  into 
my  blood,  as  its  tones  smote  my  ear.  '  I  cannot 
rest,'  it  said.  *  White  men  multiply,  and  become 
as  the  stars  of  heaven.  My  people  fade  away  like 
the  mist,  when  the  sun  ariseth.  On  their  own  land, 
they  have  become  strangers.  My  son  hideth,  with 
the  remnant  of  his  tribe,  in  the  borders  of  another 
nation.  They  call  him  King.  Why  doth  he  not 
dare  to  set  his  feet,  where  his  father's  throne  stood  ? 
I  see  cities  there,  and  temples  to  a  God  whom  our 
fathers  knew  not.  Our  canoes  ride  no  longer  on 
the  tides  of  the  Narragansett.  Proud  sails  are  there, 
whiter  than  the  curl  of  its  waters.  Doth  the  son 
of  Philip  sleep  1  Tell  him,  if  he  be  a  king,  to  write 
it  in  blood,  on  the  grave  where  my  bones  moulder. 
Tell  him,  if  he  be  my  son,  to  sheath  his  spear  in  the 
breast  of  every  white  man,  till  the  soul  of  his  father 
is  satisfied.'  The  spirit  vanished,  and  the  blackness 
of  midnight  glowed  like  a  gush  of  blood.  I  have 
spoken  its  message  unto  thee,  king  of  a  perishing 
race.  Yonder  is  a  victim,  provided  by  the  Great 
Spirit.  Bid  it  soothe  the  sorrowing  shade  of  thy 
father." 

The  forest  echoed  to  the  furious  voice  of  the  in 
censed  prophet.     The  king  covered  his  face  with 


46  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

his  hands.  Then  pointing  mournfully  toward  me, 
he  said, — "  Take  him,  and  do  with  him  what  ye  will. 
It  is  not  the  king,  but  the  prophet,  that  demandeth 
his  blood." 

I  would  have  spoken,  but  he  walked  hastily  away. 
The  old  man  gazed  after  him  with  a  reproachful  eye, 
and  then  spoke  rapidly  to  the  people,  in  their  own 
language,  giving,  as  I  supposed,  directions  for  my 
death.  I  observed  him  closely,  to  discover  whether 
argument  or  supplication  might  be  hazarded.  But 
in  his  stern,  stony  features,  there  dwelt  no  touch  of 
human  sympathy.  The  victim  might  as  well  have 
hoped  to  propitiate  the  Druid,  whose  pitiless  hand 
grasped  the  sacrificial  blade.  I  suffered  them  to  lead 
me  away,  in  silence. 

They  conducted  me  to  a  level  spot,  from  whence 
the  trees  had  been  partially  cleared,  as  if  by  fire.  I 
believed  this  to  be  the  place  of  execution.  They 
desired  me  to  sit,  and  the  women  and  children  flock 
ed  around  me.  Yet  I  saw  not  upon  their  brows 
aught  of  hatred  or  exultation.  Some  were  strongly 
marked  with  pity.  Even  the  little  ones  regarded 
me  with  melancholy  attention.  Towards  noon,  a 
plentiful  repast  was  brought  me.  It  would  seem 
that  they  had  put  in  requisition  all  their  culinary 
skill,  to  furnish  my  last  feast  on  earth.  Fish,  birds, 
and  the  flesh  of  the  deer,  with  cakes  baked  in  the 
ashes,  and  parched  corn,  varied  the  banquet.  They 
spread  it  before  me,  and  retired  to  some  distance, 
taught  by  Nature  the  simple  politeness  of  not  dis- 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  47 

turbing  the  stranger.  Returning,  they  brought  water 
for  my  hands  and  face,  and  the  children,  venturing 
nearer,  decked  my  hair  with  wild  flowers.  I  felt 
that  they  were  adorning  the  victim  for  the  altar,  yet 
I  could  not  but  look  on  them  with  kindness,  for  their 
guileless  manners  and  simple  ceremonies  served  to 
soothe  apprehension,  though  they  might  not  nourish 
hope.  The  men  consulted  in  groups.  Probably, 
the  arrangements  for  my  martyrdom  occupied 
them.  Yet  they  displayed  neither  the  impatience 
to  hasten  it,  nor  the  savage  triumph,  that  I  had 
been  taught  to  expect  from  descriptions  of  similar 
scenes. 

At  the  decline  of  day,  they  stripped  a  small  tree 
of  its  boughs,  and  cut  off  its  trunk  at  the  distance 
of  six  or  seven  feet  from  the  earth.  As  the  shades 
of  evening  deepened,  they  kindled  a  large  fire, 
around  which  they  began  to  dance,  with  dissonant 
music,  and  violent  gesticulation.  Becoming  excited 
almost  to  madness,  they  approached  and  bound  me 
to  the  tree. 

Hitherto,  I  had  but  imperfectly  realized  my  doom. 
Illusions  of  escape  and  of  deliverance  had  been  flit 
ting  through  my  imagination.  Even  when  the 
branches  were  heaped  around  that  were  to  consume 
me,  I  could  not  dismiss  these  illusions.  They  put 
fire  to  the  encircling  fuel.  It  was  green,  and  the 
thick  smoke  almost  suffocated  me.  Horrible  visions 
swam  before  my  eyes.  Unutterable  thoughts  rush 
ed  through  my  brain.  My  soul  could  not  bid  adieu 


48  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

to  the  objects  of  its  love.  It  was  tossed  upon  a  sea 
of  wild  emotion,  like  a  reeling  bark  before  the  tern- 
pest.  I  strove  to  recall  the  instructions  of  my  revered 
pastor,  but  Memory  was  a  wreck,  amid  the  billows 
of  Fate. 

Before  me  was  a  steep  hill,  interspersed  with  rocks 
and  thickets.  There  my  eyes  fixed,  until  every 
bush  seemed  to  cluster  with  fiery  faces.  At  length, 
on  the  summit  of  that  precipice,  where  dark  clouds 
rested,  a  light  shone,  above  the  brightness  of  the 
moon.  A  form,  of  more  than  mortal  height,  came 
gliding  thence,  in  a  path  of  living  flame.  In  its 
right  hand  glittered  the  semblance  of  a  sword,  and 
on  its  left  came  forth  fire,  which  seemed  to  kindle 
the  firmament.  I  thought  I  beheld  the  King  of  Ter 
rors.  I  wished  that  I  could  welcome  his  approach. 

The  fearful  form  came  nearer.  It  stood  before 
me.  Awful  tones,  in  an  unknown  tongue,  proceeded 
from  its  lips.  At  their  sound,  my  foes  shrieked 
and  fled.  Like  the  host  of  Israel,  at  the  terrible 
voice  from  the  flames  of  Sinai,  they  could  not  endure 
that "  those  words  should  be  spoken  to  them  a  second 
time." 

I  was  writhing  before  the  scorching  flame.  A 
hand  of  power  loosened  my  bonds.  "  Follow  me," 
said  a  tremendous  voice ;  "  but  gaze  not  on  me,  lest 
thou  perish."  I  obeyed,  and  shading  my  eyes  with 
my  hand,  walked  in  the  path  of  light,  that  gleamed 
before  me.  I  trembled,  lest  I  might  accidentally 
look  upon  one,  whom  "  no  man  can  see  and  live." 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  40 

It  seemed  that  the  way  was  long,  but  my  mind 
was  in  that  state  when  the  unities  of  time  and  space 
are  annihilated.  I  thought  that  the  drapery  of  a 
diseased  intellect  enveloped  me,  or  that  I  had  already 
passed  the  gulf  of  death,  and  was  gliding  through 
the  region  of  disembodied  spirits.  But  still  before 
me  moved,  in  mysterious  majesty,  that  "  pillar  of 
cloud,  and  pillar  of  flame."  At  length,  we  stood 
upon  the  banks  of  a  river,  which  I  recollected  to 
have  crossed  soon  after  my  capture.  The  difficulty 
which  we  had  encountered  in  fording  it,  was  the 
first  circumstance  that  perfectly  restored  my  senses 
from  their  stupor,  after  the  stroke  that  prostrated  me. 

"  Pass  through  the  stream,"  said  the  same  tre 
mendous  voice.  I  shuddered  at  its  tone.  "  Pass 
through  the  stream.  If  its  waters  oppose  thee,  ask 
aid  of  Him  who  taught  the  wavering  disciple  to 
walk  upon  the  sea.  When  thou  reachest  the  shore, 
kneel,  and  pay  thy  vows  to  Jehovah." 

I  plunged  into  the  swollen  waters.  Thrice,  their 
current  thwarted  me.  Once,  I  found  myself  beyond 
my  depth,  and  exhaustion  came  over  me.  I  spake 
to  my  Redeemer.  Still  the  pure  ray  of  that  mys 
terious  light  gleamed  around  me,  till  I  gained  the 
opposing  shore  in  safety.  There  I  knelt,  in  obedi 
ence  to  the  command  of  my  deliverer.  My  heart 
was  full  of  unutterable  aspirations.  When  they 
ceased,  I  arose,  but  there  was  no  longer  any  bright 
ness  in  my  path.  I  saw  that  the  night  had  fled,  and 
the  gray  dawn  trembled  in  the  east. 
E 


50  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

As  I  drew  near  these  beloved  abodes,  the  appre 
hensions  which  had  distressed  me,  at  the  return  and 
mysterious  recital  of  the  Indian  warriors,  again  re 
sumed  their  sway.  How  shall  I  describe  the  rapture, 
with  which  the  light  of  morning  gave  to  my  view, 
the  smoke  curling  in  peaceful  volumes  above  these 
trees  !  I  seemed  to  surmount  the  space  that  divided 
me  from  you,  as  the  swift-winged  bird  cleaves  the 
air.  Methought  I  could  pour  out  existence  to 
Him  who  had  preserved  it,  in  one  unending  hymn 
of  joy. 

Friends,  ask  me  neither  for  explanation  nor  com 
ment.  I  have  given  you  the  truth,  as  it  dwells  in 
my  soul.  Bewildered,  I  scarcely  know  what  to  say, 
save  that  I  stand  here  among  you,  look  on  faces 
that  are  dear,  and  know  that  God,  by  some  myste 
rious  messenger,  hath  snatched  me  from  destruction." 

As  he  ceased,  his  friends  thronged  around  him, 
with  the  most  affectionate  congratulations.  Little 
children,  who  had  often  wept  during  the  narrative, 
pressed  near,  that  they  might  lay  their  hand  upon 
one,  who  had  witnessed  such  marvellous  things. 

The  pastor  came  forward  into  the  centre  of  the 
circle,  as  a  father  enters  among  his  children.  Laying 
his  hand  solemnly  on  the  head  of  Laurens,  he  said, 
"  This,  my  son,  was  dead  and  is  alive  again,  was 
lost  and  is  found."  They  understood  his  inference 
unspoken,  and  kneeling  upon  the  green  turf,  joined 
the  holy  man,  in  fervent  thanksgiving  to  their 
Almighty  Protector. 


LEGEND    OF     OXFORD.  51 

To  this  scene  of  pious  gratitude,  succeeded  a  re 
cital  of  the  danger  and  preservation  of  the  colony, 
to  which  the  rescued  brother  listened  with  intense 
interest  and  deep  astonishment.  Features  of  simi 
larity  were  recognized  in  the  mysterious  being  who 
had  effected  this  double  deliverance,  though  a  highly 
excited  imagination  had,  in  the  case  of  Laurens,  in 
vested  him  with  more  of  supernatural « influence. 
Those  events  long  supplied  the  colony  with  a  sub 
ject  for  the  hour  of  twilight  musing  and  midnight 
vigil,  a  theme  for  the  wonder  of  childhood,  the  ter 
ror  of  superstition,  the  conjecture  and  speculation 
of  all.  But  the  lapse  of  years  drew  the  curtain 
from  this  mystery,  by  revealing  the  history  of  the 
regicide  Judges. 

After  the  restoration  of  Charles  the  Second  to  the 
throne  of  England,  and  his  execution  of  several  of 
the  judges  by  whom  his  father  had  been  condemned, 
most  of  the  others  fled  to  foreign  climes.  Three 
of  them  sought  refuge  on  the  shores  of  New-Eng 
land.  Massachusetts  and  Connecticut  alternately 
afforded  them  protection.  A  cave  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  New-Haven  was  frequently  their  abode,  and 
their  piety  and  dignity  of  manner  propitiated  the 
favor  and  respect  of  the  people. 

When  it  was  understood  in  Great  Britain,  that  the 
Colonels  Whalley,  Dixwell,  and  Goffe,  had  escaped 
to  New-England,  they  were  demanded  by  the  king. 
But  the  colonists  continued  to  shelter  them.  The 
Governor  of  Connecticut,  and  the  settlement  of  New- 


52  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

Haven,  particularly  incurred  the  displeasure  of  the 
cabinet  of  James  II.,  by  their  persevering  republican 
ism,  and  incipient  spirit  of  independence. 

In  1687,  Sir  Edmund  Andrus,  a  sycophant  of  the 
House  of  Stuart,  in  its  vacillating  and  vindictive 
policy,  entered  New-England,  with  the  authority 
and  disposition  of  a  petty  tyrant.  Arriving  at  Hart 
ford,  he  demanded  the  Charter  of  Connecticut.  Sud 
denly,  in  the  room  where  the  consultation  was  held, 
the  lights  were  extinguished,  and  the  important 
parchment  disappeared.  A  bold  and  cautious  hand 
deposited  it  in  the  hollow  heart  of  an  oak, — which 
henceforward  acquired  imperishable  fame,  and  still 
flourishes  in  vigorous  and  green  old  age. 

Sir  Edmund  Andrus,  proceeding  to  New-Haven 
fixed  his  suspicious  eye  on  a  stranger  whom  he  ac 
cidentally  encountered,  and  pronounced  to  be  one 
of  the  regicides  in  disguise.  He  instituted  a  strict 
search  for  the  man,  but  both  vigilance,  and  bribe, 
proved  ineffectual.  This  was  indeed  Col.  Dixwell, 
who,  with  his  associates,  had  been  "  hunted  as  a  par 
tridge  on  the  mountains."  Having  for  a  long  pre 
vious  period  been  unmolested,  he  occasionally  ven 
tured  to  walk  in  the  streets,  and  even  to  attend  pub 
lic  worship.  Reading  in  the  eagle  glance  of  the 
haughty  minion,  that  he  was  singled  out  for  immo 
lation,  he  instantly  withdrew,  and  was  long  invisible 
to  his  most  faithful  adherents.  Sometimes  caverns 
afforded  him  refuge ;  at  others,  he  threw  himself 
on  the  good  faith  of  strangers,  and  found  conceal- 


LEGEND    OF  OXFORD.  58 

ment.  It  was  asserted  that  a  cave  in  the  vicinity 
of  Oxford  was  among  his  favorite  retreats,  and 
the  date  of  the  events  which  we  have  just  record 
ed,  corresponds  with  this  period  of  his  flight  and 
seclusion. 

Being  a  man  of  native  address,  and  military  en 
terprise,  he  had  previously  mingled,  though  unknown, 
in  scenes  of  conflict  with  the  aborigines.  Their 
traits  of  character  had  interested  him  as  a  study, 
and  having  become  acquainted  with  some  words  of 
their  language,  it  was  said  that  he  made  use  of  them, 
together  with  a  wild  and  imposing  suit  of  apparel, 
a  blazing  torch,  and  a  sword  which  had  served  in 
the  wars  of  Cromwell,  to  accomplish  such  results 
as  those  which  we  have  related.  It  was  also  said 
that  Father  Daille  had  visited  him  in  his  subterra 
nean  retreat,  and  been  intrusted  confidentially  with 
his  agency  in  these  occurrences,  and  with  other  parts 
of  his  history.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Col.  Dixwell,  who 
was  a  man  of  superior  talents,  and  religious  sensi 
bility,  and,  as  the  quaint  writers  of  that  age  assert, 
"  possessed  of  manifest  great  education,"  took  plea 
sure  in  evincing,  as  far  as  his  precarious  situa 
tion  admitted,  his  grateful  sympathies  in  the  wel 
fare  of  a  people  who  had  saved  him  from  the  scaf 
fold. 

The  settlement  at  Oxford  continued  gradually  and 

steadily  to  attain  prosperity.     An  air  of  neatness 

and  comfort  pervaded  its  rustic  dwellings.     In  the 

vicinity   of  many   of  them,  the   vines  of   France 

E2 


54  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

were  seen  reaching  forth  their  young  tendrils,  and 
striving  to  sustain  existence  with  the  smiles  of  a  less 
genial  sun.  The  pastor,  who  had  led  his  flock  into 
foreign  folds,  shared  in  all  their  concerns  with  a  sym 
pathy  and  zeal  that  knew  no  declension.  In  their 
secular  affairs  he  aided  with  his  advice,  in  their  sick 
nesses  he  sat  by  their  bed,  combining  the  skill  of  the 
temporal  healer  with  the  higher  offices  of  the  spirit 
ual  physician.  Piety  was  not  worn  by  him,  only 
as  a  sabbath  garb.  Every  day  he  wrapped  its  man 
tle  around  his  spirit.  It  attended  him  in  his  domes 
tic  duties,  in  all  his  companionship  with  men.  It  was 
like  an  undying  lamp,  of  the  mildest  radiance,  ever 
beaming  on  his  path,  and  enlightening  the  steps  of 
others.  No  one  could  be  long  in  his  presence,  with 
out  perceiving  that  his  heart  was  above.  Yet  this 
was  not  evinced  by  moroseness,  or  contempt  of 
earthly  cares,  or  sternness  towards  weaker  spirits, 
but  by  a  gentle  and  powerful  influence,  which  ele 
vated  the  thoughts  and  affections  of  those  around. 
In  his  visits  to  his  people,  the  unrestrained  flow  of 
discourse  prompted  every  heart  to  pour  itself  out  to 
him.  Little  children  gathered  near  him,  and  learn 
ed  to  associate  the  name  of  their  Redeemer  with  the 
sacred  lips  that  told  them  of  his  love,  ^.mid  the 
unchecked  pleasure  of  this  parochial  intercourse,  the 
simple  raising  of  his  benign  eye  to  Heaven,  was 
understood  by  his  confiding  and  affectionate  peo 
ple,  as  a  signal  for  the  spirit  to  commune  with 
its  Father,  if  it  were  only  through  the  aspiration  of 
a  moment. 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  55 

In  his  partner,  he  found  a  congenial  mind,  and  a 
helper  in  every  toil.  Though  her  education  and 
manners  might  have  qualified  her  to  move  in  courts, 
she  found  no  greater  delight  than  in  zealously  aid 
ing  her  husband  in  his  responsible  duties,  particular 
ly  in  the  instruction  of  the  children  of  the  commu 
nity,  and  the  comfort  of  disease  and  affliction.  Ac 
customed  to  the  pursuits  and  accomplishments  of 
refined  society,  the  only  recreation  in  which  she  now 
indulged  herself,  was  the  culture  of  a  few  flowers ; 
and  one  of  the  highest  gratifications  which  they  fur 
nished  her,  was  sometimes  to  lay  them,  in  all  their 
beauty  and  breathing  fragrance,  upon  the  pillow  of 
the  sick.  The  same  benevolence  induced  her  to  turn 
her  knowledge  of  the  physiology  of  plants  to  practical 
use.  A  part  of  her  garden  was  devoted  to  the  rear 
ing  of  medicinal  herbs,  and  her  skill  in  their  applica 
tion  enabled  her  often  to  alleviate  physical  suffering. 
Yet  no  diseases  of  a  serious  nature  had  hitherto  appear 
ed  among  them,  notwithstanding  the  influence  of  a 
comparatively  severe  climate,  might  have  been  ex 
pected  to  put  in  requisition  the  more  efficient  aids 
of  medical  science.  But  their  state  of  society  for 
cibly  illustrated,  how  industry,  moderated  desires, 
and  habitual  cheerfulness,  promote  health  of  body,  as 
well  as  health  of  mind. 

Somewhat  more  than  three  years  had  elapsed, 
since  the  establishment  of  the  colony.  The  autumn 
of  1690  was  advancing  towards  its  close.  Copse 
and  forest  exhibited  those  varied  and  opposing  hues, 


Ob  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

which  array  in  such  surprising  beauty  and  brilliance, 
the  foliage  of  New-England.  The  harvest  was  com 
pleted,  and  every  family  was  in  preparation  for  the 
claims  of  a  cold  and  dreary  season.  Children  might 
still  be  seen,  bearing  toward  their  habitations,  bas 
kets  of  those  nuts,  which  were  to  vary  the  banquet 
of  their  winter  evenings.  The  elastic  atmosphere 
gave  vigor  to  their  spirits,  and  their  little  voices 
clamored  joyously  and  incessantly.  It  was  pleasant 
to  see  their  healthful  and  innocent  faces,  like  bright 
flowers  amid  those  wilds,  so  lately  tenanted  by  the 
copper-colored  Indian,  and  the  sable  bear. 

Among  these  happy  groups,  were  the  beautiful 
children  of  St.  Maur ; — Antoine,  a  boy  of  eight,  and 
Elise,  four  years  younger.  They  were  peculiarly 
dear  to  their  father,  from  the  circumstance  of  his 
having  the  sole  charge  of  them.  Their  mother, 
whose  delicate  frame  had  been  exhausted  by  the 
hardships  of  persecution,  died  during  her  voyage  to 
America.  The  passage  had  been  rude  and  boister 
ous,  and  the  fearful  tempests  which  marked  their 
approach  to  a  wintry  coast,  annihilated  that  feeble 
hope  of  her  recovery,  which  affection  had  cherished. 
During  a  violent  storm,  while  the  ship  tossed  as  if 
the  deep  were  about  to  engulf  her,  that  pale  mother 
sat  the  whole  night,  with  her  infant  on  her  bosom. 
She  was  not  willing  to  transfer  it  to  other  arms. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  it : — their  long  and  tender 
glance  seemed  to  say, — "  It  is  the  last  time."  When 
the  morning  dawned,  she  kissed  the  baby,  and  laid 


LEGEND    OF   OXFORD.  57 

it  in  her  husband's  bosom.  Antoine  remembered  as 
long  as  he  lived,  that  she  clasped  her  cold  hands 
upon  his  little  head,  and  said  faintly, — "  The  cup 
that  my  Father  hath  given  me,  shall  I  not  drink  it  1" 
— and  that  in  a  few  moments  she  was  stretched  out, 
motionless,  and  dead. 

It  was  not  wonderful  that  St.  Maur  should  regard 
these  motherless  ones,  the  companions  of  his  exile, 
with  extreme  tenderness, — that  he  should  desire  to 
watch  over  them  every  moment.  With  his  permis 
sion  to  join  their  companions,  in  nut-gathering,  he 
mingled  an  injunction  to  return  home  before  sunset. 
Delighted  with  their  enlivening  occupation,  they  saw 
with  regret  the  sun  declining  toward  the  west,  but, 
obedient  to  their  father's  command,  took  leave  of 
their  companions,  and  departed  from  the  forest.  On 
their  homeward  path,  they  discovered  profuse  clus 
ters  of  the -purple  forest-grape,  and  entered  a  rocky 
recess  to  gather  the  additional  treasure.  Suddenly, 
they  were  seized  by  two  Indians.  Antoine  strug 
gled  violently,  and  every  feature  was  convulsed  with 
anger.  His  little  sister  stretched  out  her  hands  to 
him  for  protection,  but  in  vain.  When  the  first  tu 
mult  of  surprise  had  subsided,  the  keen  eye  of  the 
boy  took  note  of  every  angle  in  the  path,  every  brook 
that  they  forded,  every  hill  that  was  ascended,  deter 
mining,  if  possible,  to  effect  an  escape.  He  was 
grieved  that  darkness  so  soon  prevented  his  observa 
tion  of  the  country. 

The   night  was  considerably  advanced,  ere  the 


58  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD 

Indians  halted.  They  kindled  a  fire,  and  offered 
the  children  some  of  the  food  which  they  carried 
with  them.  The  heart  of  Antoine  swelled  high, 
and  he  refused  to  partake.  But  the  little  girl  took 
some  parched  corn,  and  sat  on  the  knee  of  the  rude 
Indian.  He  smiled,  when  he  saw  her  eat  the  kernels, 
and  look  up  in  his  face  with  a  trusting,  reproachless 
eye.  Then  they  lay  down  to  sleep,  each  with  a  cap 
tive  in  his  arms. 

Antoine  wisely  restrained  his  impatience,  and  re 
mained  perfectly  still,  until  the  grasp  that  confined 
him  relaxed,  and  deeper  breathing  denoted  slumber. 
Then,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  he  crept  away 
from  the  side  of  his  captor.  Softly  rising  on  his 
feet,  he  looked  on  the  sleeping  group.  Nothing  was 
heard,  save  the  crackling  of  the  fire,  which  blazed 
up  high  and  bright  in  the  forest,  and  the  distant  growl 
ing  and  moaning  of  a  bear,  as  if  bereaved  of  her 
cubs.  The  heart  of  a  child  at  the  lone  hour  of  mid 
night,  who  had  never  before  been  separated  from  the 
side  of  a  parent,  might  well  shudder  at  a  scene  so 
awful.  But  new  and  strange  courage  enkindled,  when 
he  recollected  that  he  was  the  sole  protector  of  his  little 
sister,  and  that  their  father  was  now  miserable  for 
their  loss. 

The  innocent  child  lay  sleeping  upon  the  damp 
ground,  her  head  resting  upon  the  shoulder  of  the 
dark,  red  man.  She  seemed  like  a  rosebud  broken 
from  its  stalk,  and  dropped  in  some  dismal  vault, 
where  the  slimy  snake  gliding  from  its  nest,  enfolds 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  59 

it  in  a  venomous  coil.  Her  tiny  hand,  pure  as  wax, 
lay  among  the  long,  black  locks  of  the  Indian,  and 
her  ruby  lips  were  slightly  parted  by  her  soft  and 
quiet  breathing. 

Her  brother,  brushing  away  the  thick,  dark  curls 
that  clustered  around  his  forehead,  bent  over  her. 
He  wished  to  snatch  her  from  durance,  and  bear  her 
to  her  home.  He  espied  a  tomahawk,  and  seized  it. 
Terrible  designs  took  possession  of  his  mind.  He 
believed  that  he  could  cleave  the  skull  of  the  sleep 
ing  Indians.  At  that  moment,  his  guard  awoke. 
What  was  his  astonishment  at  beholding  a  child, 
whom  he  had  deemed  incapable  of  meditating  resist 
ance,  armed  with  a  deadly  weapon,  and  his  dark 
eyes  flashing  with  all  a  warrior's  spirit !  He  could 
not  but  gaze  on  him  for  a  moment  with  admiration, 
for  the  son  of  the  forest  respects  valor  in  a  foe,  and 
to  the  sight  of  the  brave  he  was  beautiful. 

Disarming,  and  securely  pinioning  the  infant  war 
rior,  he  again  stretched  himself  upon  his  bed  of  turf. 
Antoine  struggled  vainly,  and  at  length,  overcome 
with  fatigue  and  sorrow,  mourned  himself  into  a 
broken  slumber.  Yet  in  his  dreams,  he  incessantly 
started  and  complained,  sometimes  exclaiming, — "Oh 
my  poor  father," — or,  "  See !  see !  they  have  mur 
dered  the  child." 

When  it  was  discovered  in  the  colony,  that  the 
children  of  St.  Maur  had  not  returned,  alarm  and 
sympathy  became  general.  Every  spot  was  explor 
ed,  where  it  was  supposed  possible  that  they  might 


60  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

have  lingered,  or  wandered.  Lights  were  seen,  in 
every  direction,  to  glimmer  and  recede  like  the  lamp 
of  the  fire-fly ;  and  for  hours,  upland  and  valley  re 
sounded  with  their  names.  But  when  their  little 
baskets  were  found  overturned,  and  their  contents 
scattered  in  disorder,  one  terrible  conclusion  burst 
upon  every  mind,  that  they  must  have  been  captur 
ed  by  Indians. 

With  the  dawn  of  morning,  the  men  of  the  colony 
were  assembled  at  the  door  of  St.  Maur.  Many  of 
them  bore  arms,  anxious  to  go  immediately  and  de 
mand  the  lost.  Their  pastor  was  already  there, 
consulting  with  the  agonized  father.  The  gestures 
of  St.  Maor  were  strong,  and  his  voice  fervent  in 
argument,  but  the  countenance  of  the  sacred  teacher 
was  fixed,  as  one  who  prevails.  At  length,  Father 
Daille,  advancing,  said, — 

"  It  is  decided  that  only  St.  Maur  and  myself,  go, 
and  require  our  lost  babes  of  the  savage  king.  If 
it  be  true,  as  we  have  supposed,  that  some  germ  of 
goodness  still  dwells  in  the  hearts  of  this  fierce  peo 
ple,  they  will  listen  to  a  sorrowing  father,  and  a  man 
of  God.  Go  to  your  homes,  and  pray,  that  we 
may  find  favor  in  his  sight.  We  give  you  thanks 
for  your  sympathy,  but  resistance  unto  blood  might 
end  in  the  destruction  of  our  colony.  It  might  fail 
to  restore  the  lambs  who  are  lost :  it  might  lay  our 
whole  fold  desolate.  Return  to  your  homes,  my 
children.  Not  by  the  sword,  or  the  bow  can  ye 
aid  us,  but  by  the  uplifting  of  humble  hearts  and 
faithful  hands." 


LEGEND     OF    OXFORD.  61 

The  ambassadors  to  a  savage  monarch,  pressed 
the  hands  of  their  friends  and  departed.  They  met 
an  Indian  pursuing  the  chase,  who  had  occasionally 
shared  their  hospitality,  and  consented  to  become 
their  guide.  After  travelling  till  the  evening  shades 
approached,  they  encountered  a  number  of  warriors, 
attended  by  one  who  seemed  to  exercise  the  func 
tions  of  Chief.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  earth, 
like  one  addicted  to  melancholy  thought,  and  as  he 
raised  his  brow,  it  exhibited  deep  furrows  of  age 
and  sorrow.  His  glance  was  unspeakably  stern, 
as  if  it  suddenly  met  objects  of  disgust,  or  hatred. 

"  Our  Prophet,"  said  the  guide,  bending  low  in 
reverence.  "  He  understands  your  language.  He 
can  interpret  the  will  of  the  Great  Spirit.  Our  people 
fear  him." 

Father  Daille  respectfully  accosted  him, — "Pro 
phet  of  the  Great  Spirit,  we  come  in  peace.  We 
are  told  that  thou  revealest  hidden  things.  Canst 
thou  tell  us  aught  of  two  wandering  babes  ?  When 
last  the  sun  sank  behind  the  mountain,  we  gathered 
our  lambs  into  the  fold,  but  these  came  not.  If,  in 
thy  visions,  thou  hast  heard  the  cry  of  the  lost,  we 
pray  thee  to  guide  a  mourning  father,  where  he  may 
once  more  shelter  them  in  his  arms." 

The  Prophet  remained  silent  for  several  minutes, 
haughtily  surveying  them.  Then  in  a  hoarse,  hollow 
tone,  he  replied — 

"  What  should  the  red  man  know  of  the  offspring 
of  his  enemies  ? — What !  but  to  appoint  to  the  sword, 
F 


62  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

such  as  are  for  the  sword,  and  to  cast  such  as  arc 
for  the  burning,  into  the  flame?" 

"  Hath  thy  Great  Spirit,"  said  the  Pastor,  "  any 
delight  in  the  blood  of  babes  ?  The  God  whom  we 
worship,  saith  from  heaven,  that '  He  hath  no  pleasure 
in  the  death  of  him  that  dieth.' " 

"  Go  your  way,"  said  the  hoary  Prophet,  "  go 
your  way,  and  teach  white  men  not  to  swear  falsely, 
and  not  to  steal  from  the  sons  of  the  forest,  the  lands 
that  their  fathers  gave.  Go,  and  when  thou  hast 
taught  them  these  things,  tell  me  the  words  of  thy 
God,  and  I  will  hear  thee.  Since  the  eye  of  the  pale 
race  first  looked  upon  us,  we  have  had  no  rest.  We 
ask  only  to  hunt  in  our  own  woods,  to  guide  the 
canoe  over  our  own  waters,  as  we  have  done  from 
the  beginning.  But  you  breathe  upon  us  with  thun 
der-blasts,  you  pour  poison  into  our  veins,  you  pur 
sue  us,  till  we  have  no  place  even  to  spread  out  our 
blankets.  We  die.  But  we  may  not  hide  even  in  the 
grave.  From  thence,  ye  cast  out  our  bones.  Ye 
disturb  the  ashes  of  our  fathers.  Why  do  ye  tell 
us  that  your  God  hath  made  us  brethren  ?  Your 
words  and  your  ways  war  together.  They  are  as 
the  flame  and  the  waters.  One  riseth  up  to  heaven, 
and  the  other  quencheth  it." 

The  meek  Christian  answered, — "  All  white  men 
obey  not  the  truth.  When  they  seek  to  do  good, 
evil  overtakes  them,  and  their  hearts  are  weak.  Is 
it  not  so  with  some  of  our  red  brethren  ?  Yet  we 
despise  not  the  words  of  thy  Great  Spirit,  because 
some  of  his  followers  are  false." 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  63 

While  they  were  conversing,  a  man  of  a  noble 
countenance  approached,  who  by  his  coronet  of 
feathers  seemed  to  be  the  king,  and  St.  Maur  ad 
dressed  him. 

"  King  of  the  Red  Men,  thou  seest  a  father  in 
pursuit  of  his  babes.  He  trusts  himself  fearlessly 
with  you,  for  he  has  heard  that  your  people  will  not 
harm  the  stranger  in  distress.  The  king  of  our  own 
native  land,  who  should  have  protected  us,  turned  to 
be  our  foe.  We  fled  from  our  dear  homes,  and  from 
the  graves  of  our  fathers.  The  ocean-waves  brought 
us  to  this  New  World.  We  are  a  peaceful  race, 
pure  from  the  blood  of  all  men.  We  seek  to  take 
the  hand  of  our  red  brethren.  Of  my  own  kindred 
none  inhabit  this  wilderness,  save  two  little  buds 
from  a  broken  and  buried  stem.  Last  night,  bitter 
sadness  was  on  my  pillow,  because  I  found  them 
not.  If  thou  knowest,  O  king,  where  thy  people 
have  concealed  them,  I  pray  thee  to  restore  them  to 
my  lonely  arms.  So  shall  the  Great  Spirit  shed 
pure  dew  upon  thy  tender  plants,  and  lift  up  thy 
heart  when  it  weigheth  heavily  in  thy  bosom." 

The  Indian  monarch  bent  on  the  speaker  a  scru 
tinizing  glance,  and  inquired — 

"  Knowest  thou  this  brow  1 — Look  in  my  eyes, 
and  answer  me,. — are  they  those  of  the  stranger  ?" 

St.  Maur,  regarding  him  attentively,  replied, — "  I 
have  no  knowledge  of  thy  countenance,  save  what 
this  hour  bringeth  me." 

"  Thus  is  it  ever  with  the  white  man.     He  is 


64  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

dim-eyed.  He  cannot  see  through  the  disguise  of 
garments.  Where  your  ploughs  wound  the  earth, 
I  have  oft  stood,  watching  your  toil.  There  was  no 
coronet  upon  my  brow.  But  I  was  a  king,  though 
your  people  knew  it  not.  I  saw  among  them  nei 
ther  violence,  nor  pride.  I  went  thither  as  an  enemy, 
but  returned  a  friend.  I  said  to  my  warriors,  *  Do 
these  men  no  harm.  They  are  not  like  the  English. 
They  do  not  hate  Indians.'  The  Prophet  of  our  great 
Spirit  rebuked  me.  He  brought  me  angry  words 
from  the  shade  of  my  buried  fathers. 

"  Again  I  sought  the  spot  where  thy  brethren  dwell. 
Yes, — I  entered  thy  house.  And  thou  knowest  not 
this  brow  !  I  could  read  thine  at  midnight,  though 
but  a  single  star  trembled  through  the  thick  cloud. 
My  ear  would  remember  thy  voice,  though  the  loud 
storm  was  abroad  with  its  thunders.  I  came  to  thy 
home  hungry.  Thou  gavest  me  bread.  My  head 
was  wet  with  the  tempest.  Thou  badest  me  to  lie 
down  beside  thy  hearth.  Thy  son,  for  whom  thou 
mournest,  covered  me  with  a  blanket.  I  was  heavy 
in  spirit,  and  thy  little  daughter  whom  thou  seekest 
sat  on  my  knee,  and  smiled  when  I  told  her  how 
the  beaver  buildeth  his  house  in  the  forest.  My 
heart  was  comforted.  It  said,  she  does  not  hate 
Indians,  for  she  looked  on  my  face,  as  the  lamb 
turneth  to  the  shepherd.  Now,  why  dost  thou  fix 
on  me  such  a  terrible  eye?  Thinkest  thou  that  I 
could  tear  one  hair  from  the  head  of  thy  babes  ? 
Thinkest  thou  that  the  red  man  forgetteth  kindness  ? 


LEGEND    OF  OXFORD.  65 

Thy  children  are  sleeping  in  my  tent.  No  hand 
should  ever  have  harmed  them,  and  when  I  had  but 
one  blanket,  it  should  have  been  their  bed.  Yet  I 
will  not  hide  them  from  thee.  I  know  a  father's 
heart.  Take  thy  babes,  and  return  unto  thy  people." 

He  waved  his  hand,  and  two  warriors  ran  toward 
the  royal  tent.  In  a  moment,  Antoine  and  Elise 
were  in  the  arms  of  their  father.  The  twilight  of 
the  next  day  bore  upward  from  the  rejoicing  colony, 
a  prayer  for  the  heathen  of  the  forest,  and  that  hymn 
of  devout  thanksgiving  which  mingles  with  the  music 
around  the  throne. 

The  bordering  aborigines  now  desisted  from  inter 
ference  with  the  settlement  at  Oxford.  The  offices 
of  hospitality  were  renewed,  and  it  appeared  that 
quietness  and  confidence  had  been  again  restored. 
Doubtless,  the  native  urbanity  of  the  manners  of 
France,  pervaded,  with  a  softening  and  conciliating 
influence,  even  the  savage  breast. 

An  industrious  and  intellectual  community,  thus 
suffered  to  be  at  rest,  and  expand  itself,  began  to 
examine  its  resources,  and  to  balance  them  with  its 
wants.  The  elders,  sensible  of  "the  value  of  educa 
tion,  for  Louis  14th,  amid  all  his  faults,  had  taught 
his  realm  the  reverence  of  Knowledge,  dreaded  lest 
their  descendants  should  forfeit  that  privilege,  or, 
relapsing  into  a  rude  state  of  society,  forget  to  esti 
mate  it.  Therefore,  they  continually  endeavored 
to  inspire  the  young  with  a  reverence  for  letters. 
The  few  books  which  they  retained,  in  their  sudden 
F2 


6G  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

flight  from  the  kingdom,  and  the  treasures  of  their 
own  cultivated  minds,  were  held  in  faithful  steward 
ship  for  the  rising  generation.  The  winter  evening 
fire-side  was  a  perpetual  school.  Knowledge  planted 
by  the  hand  of  affection  in  the  hallowed  sanctuary 
of  home,  is  wont  to  take  deeper  root,  than  "  seed 
sown  by  the  way-side."  Parents,  who  write  with 
their  own  pencils,  lines  of  heaven  upon  the  fresh 
tablet  of  their  children's  souls,  who  trust  not  to  the 
hand  of  hirelings,  their  first,  holiest,  most  indelible 
impressions,  will  usually  find  less  than  others  to  blot 
out,  when  the  scroll  is  finished,  and  to  mourn  for 
when  they  read  it  in  eternity. 

In  the  establishment  of  a  system  of  education, 
the  pastor  was  a  guide,  an  adjunct,  and  a  counsellor. 
The  instruction  of  youth,  he  had  ever  considered  as 
one  of  the  most  sacred  departments  of  his  office. 
Since  their  removal  to  this  new  land,  he  felt  it  as 
involving  peculiarly  the  felicity  and  even  safety  of 
his  people.  Apart  therefore  from  the  religious  in 
struction  which  he  delighted  to  impart,  he  statedly 
convened  the  youth  for  examination  in  the  various 
departments  of  science,  and  by  brief  and  lucid  lectures 
imparted  explanation,  heightened  curiosity,  and  en 
couraged  perseverance.  Ambition  was  thus  strongly 
excited,  and  the  processes  of  agricultural  labor  were 
lightened  and  elevated  by  intellectual  discussions. 
He  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his  beloved  charge 
initiated  into  the  rudiments  of  that  general  know 
ledge  which  gives  liberality  to  thought,  and  also  of 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  67 

perceiving  the   unbounded  influence  he  was   thus 
obtaining  over  their  opinions  and  affections. 

Madame  Daille  extended  the  same  benevolent  care 
to  the  young  females.  Thrice  a  week,  she  assem 
bled  them  around  her.  The  studies  which  had  been 
assigned  to  them,  and  their  different  grades  of  profi 
ciency,  then  passed  under  her  strict  observation  ;  and 
with  a  union  of  tact  and  tenderness,  she  often  closed 
these  interviews  with  some  historical  fact,  or  concise 
story,  illustrating  a  moral  principle,  reproving  the 
errors  that  she  discovered,  or  enforcing  the  precepts 
of  piety.  To  gain  her  approbation,  was  deemed  a 
sufficient  reward  for  every  effort,  and  her  frown  was 
deprecated  like  the  rebuke  of  conscience.  It  was 
impossible  that  an  intercourse  of  this  nature  should 
subsist,  without  visible  benefit  from  her  superior 
intelligence  and  accomplishments ;  and  it  was 
remarked  that  these  'young  Huguenot  females 
evinced  a  courtesy  of  manner,  and  correctness  of 
style,  which  are  usually  acquired  only  among  the 
more  polished  classes.  Yet  she  was  far  from  so 
refining  the  minds  of  her  pupils  as  to  induce  dislike 
to  those  domestic  duties  which  devolve  upon  their 
sex.  She  was  aware,  that  in  an  infant  colony, 
they  were  severe  in  their  nature  and  of  imperative 
necessity.  Her  instructions  required  their  faithful 
and  cheerful  performance.  Pointing  to  the  fields  of 
flax,  whose  blossoms  tinged  with  a  fine  blue,  the  fair 
vale  around  them,  she  expatiated  on  the  excellence  of 
those  arts  which  could  render  that  beautiful  plant  so 


68  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD, 

subservient  to  the  comfort  of  those  whom  they  loved. 
Hence  the  distaff,  the  loom  and  the  needle  were 
deemed  the  legitimate  companions  of  the  books  that 
gave  knowledge,  or  of  those  domestic  and  social 
enjoyments  to  which  both  industry  and  knowledge 
were  consecrated. 

To  the  energy  which  toil  bestows  and  the  con 
templative  habits  which  seclusion  induces,  the 
Huguenots  added  the  softening  influences  of  music. 
Sometimes  a  provincial  ballad,  or  a  national  air, 
warbled  by  those  who  had  learned  them  as  cradle- 
melodies  in  their  own  vine-clad  realm,  would  touch 
like  the  Ranz  des  Vaches,  the  fountain  of  tears. 
Yet  it  was  seldom  that  they  indulged  in  these  ener 
vating  recollections.  Music  of  a  sacred  character, 
was  their  choice.  It  might  be  called  one  of  their 
occupations.  It  entered  into  Education  as  a  science. 
It  walked  hand  in  hand  with  domestic  toil.  It  min 
gled  with  the  labors  of  the  field.  It  sanctified  the 
bridal  festivity,  and  blessed  the  cradle  dream.  It 
aided  the  sick,  to  suffer  and  be  still,  and  breathed 
out  its  dirge-like  consolation  when  the  dying  went 
"  downward  to  his  dust."  It  was  at  every  family 
altar,  morning  and  evening,  when  prayer  unfolded 
its  wing,  and  in  their  rustic  church  it  heightened  the 
thrill  of  devotion,  and  gladdened  the  holiness  of  the 
Sabbath. 

It  had  been  the  ambition  of  Father  Daille  that  his 
whole  congregation,  from  the  infant  to  him  of  hoary 
hairs,  should  be  qualified  to  lift  up  in  unison,  the 


LEGEND    OF     OXFORD.  69 

high  praises  of  their  God.  And  it  was  sweet  to 
hear  those  accordant  voices  swelling  forth  from  their 
temple  in  the  wilderness,  while  the  echo  of  the  sur 
rounding  woods  prolonged  the  cadence,  and  fostered 
the  stranger  melody. 

Thus  peaceful  and  happy  were  the  colonists  of 
Oxford.  Competence  and  health  sprang  up  as  the 
fruits  of  industry,  and  the  union  of  physical  with 
intellectual  labor,  was  found  to  be  neither  impracti 
cable  nor  ungraceful.  There  came  no  vision  of 
wealth  to  inflate  their  imagination,  no  poison  of  am 
bition  to  corrode  their  hearts.  They  dwelt  together 
in  guileless  and  trusting  brotherhood,  and  the  pastor 
and  Patriarch  daily  praised  the  Eternal  Sire,  that 
one  soul  of  harmony  and  love  seemed  infused  into 
all  his  children. 

This  was  the  aspect  of  the  settlement,  in  the  spring 
of  1700.  It  is  with  sorrow  that  we  darken  this 
scene  of  more  than  Arcadian  felicity.  It  has  been 
mentioned  that  the  greater  part  of  the  lands  com 
prehended  in  the  original  purchase  were  held  in 
undivided,  undisputed  possession ;  that  the  harvest 
was  apportioned  without  jealousy,  and  the  herds 
drew  nutriment  from  a  common  pasture.  Ten  years 
of  peace  and  amicable  intercourse  with  the  abori 
gines  had  lulled  their  apprehensions,  and  with  their 
increase  of  prosperity  and  of  numbers,  came  an 
increasing  demand  for  the  means  of  subsistence. 
It  was  therefore  deemed  expedient  to  reduce  to  cul 
tivation  a  large  expanse  of  land,  at  some  distance 


70  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

from  the  field  of  -their  accustomed  labor.  Thither, 
one  fine  vernal  morning,  the  whole  effective  strength 
of  the  colony  was  gathered.  Their  toil  on  the  hither- 
to  unbroken  soil,  was  animated  by  a  common  inter 
est,  and  enlivened  by  conversation  which  partook 
of  fraternal  sympathy.  Father  Daille,  who,  like 
pastor  Oberlin,  took  a  personal  interest  in  all  that 
regarded  his  people,  reminded  them  that  the  ensuing 
day  was  the  fourteenth  anniversary  of  their  colonial 
existence,  and  heightened  their  emotions  of  gratitude 
by  contrasting  the  comforts  of  their  present  sim 
plicity  of  life,  with  the  sorrows,  persecutions,  and 
fears  from  which  they  had  escaped. 

Suddenly,  the  report  of  muskets  in  the  direction 
of  their  distant  homes,  filled  every  heart  with  con 
sternation.  Hastening  toward  their  abodes,  with 
agonized  speed,  many  a  husband  and  father  was 
met  by  those  dearest  to  him,  communicating  intelli 
gence,  that  the  Indians  had  been  among  them. 
As  a  fearful  proof  that  their  visit  had  not  been  in 
friendship,  the  body  of  Jeanson,  one  of  the  most 
esteemed  of  their  number,  lay  weltering  in  blood, 
upon  the  green  turf  that  skirted  his  threshold.  They 
entered  his  house,  and  saw  that  the  work  of  savage 
vengeance  was  perfect.  Not  one  had  been  spared. 
The  mother,  with  the  infant  that  she  would  gladly 
have  died  to  shelter,  lay  a  lifeless  wreck,  with  its 
mangled  form  clasped  firmly  in  her  arms.  Two 
other  innocents  whose  heads  had  been  dashed  against 
the  hearth-stone,  where  they  had  been  nurtured,  left 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  71 

the  stains  of  their  life-blood,  to  tell  the  story  of  the 
extinction  of  a  whole  family. 

The  astonishment  and  grief  of  the  colonists,  it 
would  be  in  vain  to  describe.  A  part  rushed  in  the 
direction  where  the  spoilers  were  said  to  have  dis 
appeared,  and  the  remainder  considering  this  as  the 
prelude  of  a  general  attack,  removed  all  the  women 
and  children  to  the  fort.  At  night  they  were  joined 
by  their  friends  in  arms,  who  had  through  the  day 
vainly  sought  to  track,  or  to  obtain  information  of 
the  murderers.  But  they  had  learned,  in  the  course 
of  their  pursuit,  the  alarming  fact,  that  the  king,  the 
tried  and  faithful  friend  of  the  colony  was  no  more, 
— that  he  had  been  assassinated  for  his  attachment 
to  the  whites,  by  his  own  people,  instigated  by  the  in 
furiated  prophet.  Sentinels  were  placed,  as  the  dark 
ness  deepened,  and  the  elders  met  in  consultation. 

It  would  seem  that  only  three  Indians  had  been 
seen  on  this  errand  of  death.  They  started  from  an 
adjoining  thicket,  just  as  Jeanson,  who  had  been 
detained  at  home  later  than  his  associates,  was  de 
parting  to  join  them.  His  destruction,  and  that  of 
his  family,  was  the  work  of  but  a  few  moments,  and 
they  disappeared,  ere  the  distant  protectors  could  be 
summoned,  or  even  the  settlement  generally  alarmed. 

"  We  will  again  pursue  them,  with  the  dawn  of 
morning,"  said  Bethu,  the  nearest  neighbor  of  the 
dead.  "  We  will  press,  with  arms  in  our  hands, 
through  the  line  of  their  fiercest  warriors,  and  demand 
those  blood-stained  barbarians  of  their  prophet. 


72  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

The  shades  of  Conde  and  Coligni  shall  not  reproach 
us  with  suffering  our  brother  to  fall  unavenged." 

Boudineau  spoke  next, — an  elder  whose  hair  was 
silvered.  "  Their  mode  of  warfare  is  as  peculiar 
as  their  habits  of  life.  They  avoid  every  encounter 
of  regular  and  open  battle.  Who  can  pursue  them 
into  their  wilds  with  effect,  or  even  with  rational 
hope  of  return  ?  While  we  strive  to  carry  retribu 
tion  into  their  miserable  wigwams,  will  they  not 
suddenly  fall  upon  the  precious  pledges  we  leave 
behind,  and  extinguish  our  light  for  ever  1  Have  we 
any  mode  of  defence,  but  perpetual  vigilance,  and 
never  losing  sight  of  our  habitations  ?" 

"  Who,"  exclaimed  Pintard,  "  can  endure  this  spe 
cies  of  oppression,  this  spiritless  submission  to  an  abject 
foe,  this  everlasting  dying  to  avoid  death  ?  If  we  are 
to  live  the  lives  of  cowards,  it  were  better  to  do  so 
among  civilized  men,  than  to  teach  the  free-born 
spirits  of  France  to  shudder  and  watch  the  skulking 
steps  of  savages,  those  links  between  animal  nature 
and  humanity." 

"  Our  fallen  brother,"  said  Sejournie,  "  could  not 
have  awakened  the  personal  hatred  of  the  natives, 
he  who  was  even  proverbially  peaceful  and  amiable. 
May  we  not  therefore  suppose  that  the  situation  of 
his  house  being  on  the  outskirts  of  the  settlement, 
induced  the  murderers  to  select  it,  as  affording  facili 
ties  for  their  purpose,  with  the  least  danger  of  re 
taliation?  Is  it  not  also  probable  that  the  absence 
of  the  men  of  the  colony  was  known  to  them,  and 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  73 

that  this  determined  their  choice  of  time  for  the  de 
predation  ?  If  there  was  no  individual  enmity,  this 
fearful  deed  marks  latent  hostility  to  the  whole,  and 
a  hostility  distinguished  by  that  cunning  which  pre 
dominates  in  their  character.  May  we  not  consider 
this  unprovoked  act,  as  the  beginning  of  a  series  of 
the  same  complexion  ?  The  murder  of  the  pacific 
king,  and  the  predominance  of  the  prophet's  influ 
ence,  give  us  fearful  premonition  of  what  we  are  to 
expect." 

"  Let  us,"  said  Rollin,  "  resign  these  lands,  and 
incorporate  ourselves  with  some  larger  colony.  Our 
force  is  inadequate  to  cope  with  the  tribes  upon  our 
boundary.  It  is  better  to  bear  the  charge  of  pusil 
lanimity,  which  this  measure  might  involve,  than  to 
have  our  blood  wasted  drop  by  drop,  by  a  foe  not 
tangible,  who  springs  like  a  lion  from  the  thicket,  or 
breaks  with  his  war-whoop  upon  the  midnight  dream, 
or  desolates  the  fire-side  and  the  cradle,  if  the  father 
forsakes  it  but  for  a  moment." 

"  We  came  to  these  wilds,"  said  Boudoin, "  to  wor 
ship  God  freely,  and  to  live  in  peace  with  man  :  yet 
we  still  seem  to  be  in  warfare,  or  in  dread  of  it,  or 
as  a  city  besieged.  While  we  thus  stand  in  armor, 
the  toils  by  which  we  gain  subsistence  must  lan 
guish  or  be  laid  aside.  So,  that  the  death  which  we 
ward  off  by  the  sword,  comes  by  famine.  Taa  people 
of  peaceful  creed,  this  military  watchfulness,  and 
sleepless  dread,  and  continual  declension,  rob  fleeting 

life  of  its  value." 

G 


74  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

All  expressed  their  opinions,  as  varying  judgment 
or  different  tides  of  emotion  dictated,  and  then,  ac 
cording  to  their  patriarchal  form  of  government,  ap 
pealed  to  the  pastor  as  umpire.  He  spoke  deliber 
ately,  as  one  who  felt  the  importance  of  every 
word : 

"  We  know  that  the  tribes  upon  our  borders  are 
formidable  in  their  combination.  Their  king  has, 
under  God,  been  the  bond  of  peace  between  us  and 
them.  That  bond  is  severed  for  ever.  We  owe  a 
tear  to  his  memory,  for  his  friendship  to  white  men 
has  cost  him  his  life.  The  counsel  of  Moloch  has 
prevailed  ;  the  fierce  and  vindictive  prophet  is  stir 
ring  up  his  people  to  the  utter  extermination  of  our 
colony.  The  blood-hounds  of  savage  war  are  doubt 
less  to  be  let  loose  upon  our  peaceful  settlement.  The 
disaster  which  has  now  convened  us,  in  mournful 
consultation,  is,  we  have  reason  to  believe,  only  the 
precursor  of  the  storm — the  first  blast  of  the  hurri 
cane.  It  would  seem,  therefore,  the  dictate  of  wis 
dom,  if  not  of  necessity,  to  return  to  that  happy  city 
which  first  sheltered  us,  when  as  exiles  we  sought 
this  New  World.  We  shall  there  find  that  safety, 
which  we  must  here  purchase  at  the  expense  of  blood 
too  precious ;  perhaps,  which  we  are  even  too  few 
in  numbers  to  secure  to  the  helpless  ones,  who  have 
trustingly  followed  us  to  this  wilderness.  We  may 
there,  by  other  employments,  as  well  as  those  of 
agriculture,  gain  subsistence  for  those  who  depend 
on  us ;  and  these  lands  may  eventually  be  disposed 


LEGEND    OF     OXFORD.  75 

of,  to  a  colony  of  more  effective  strength,  or  one 
that  may  more  readily  command  the  aid  of  the  go 
vernment,  in  repelling  aggressions  of  the  aborigines. 
Brethren,  and  sons,  I  have  spoken  my  opinion.  But 
I  am  free  to  confess,  that  I  have  spoken  it  under  the 
pressure  of  emotion.  I  am  this  night  as  a  father 
bereaved  of  his  children.  My  decision  is  made  in 
sorrow.  Ye,  whose  hearts  are  less  bowed  down, 
decide  in  this  matter.  Judge,  and  we  will  abide  by 
your  decision,  and  may  the  spirit  of  unerring  wisdom 
preside  in  your  council." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  spoke  no 
more,  till  they  ended  their  consultation.  They  pro 
tracted  it,  till  the  morning  shone  full  and  fair  upon 
the  green  hill,  and  the  rough,  gray  stones  of  the  fort 
where  they  were  assembled.  After  canvassing  every 
argument,  and  discussing  every  point  of  feeling,  the 
decision  of  the  majority  was  in  favor  of  immediate 
removal.  The  opinion  was  unanimous,  that  in  or 
der  to  avoid  a  recurrence  of  savage  depredation,  no 
delay  should  take  place,  except  for  unavoidable  pre 
paration  and  the  obsequies  of  the  departed. 

The  succeeding  day  drew  near  its  close,  when, 
bearing  the  bodies  of  the  slaughtered  family,  the 
whole  colony  in  solemn  procession  entered  the  hum 
ble  building  which  had  served  for  a  church.  When 
the  dead  were  stretched  out,  side  by  side,  in  that 
sacred  tenement,  the  wailing  was  deep  and  univer 
sal.  The  father  smitten  in  full  strength, — the  mo 
ther,  with  her  youngest  born  strained  to  her  bosom 


76  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

in  death's  convulsive  grasp, — and  two  little  mangled 
forms,  whose  exceeding  beauty  was  remembered  by 
all, — lay  in  silent  and  awful  repose. 

The  man  of  God  waited  until  the  first  waves  of 
agony  were  broken.  Furrows  of  painful  thought 
were  upon  his  brow,  but  his  bearing  was  like  one 
whose  heart  is  in  heaven.  When  there  was  silence, 
he  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  the  people. 

"  Ye  know,  that  this  is  the  fourteenth  birth-day 
of  our  village.  We  hoped  to  have  celebrated  it  with 
songs  of  festivity.  Now,  our  melody  is  mingled 
with  the  voices  of  those  who  weep.  The  sweet  in 
cense  that  we  would  have  offered  at  the  altar,  is 
heavy  with  the  odor  of  bitter  herbs.  Yet  He  who 
hath  caused  mourning,  is  also  the  God  of  compas 
sion.  He  will  not  break  the  leaf  driven  before  the 
tempest. 

"  Many  thoughts  press  upon  me  to  be  spoken.  But 
ye  cannot  bear  them  now.  Ye  come  as  the  Israel 
ites  to  their  passover,  with  loins  girded  and  staves 
in  your  hands,  as  men  in  haste  for  a  journey.  But 
go  not  forth  despairing,  though  ye  pass  beneath  the 
cloud.  Take  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant  upon  your 
shoulders.  Let  the  wing  of  the  cherubims  oversha 
dow  you.  Arise  and  depart,  for  this  is  not  your 
rest. 

"  Scene  of  our  Refuge  ! — when  our  own  land  cast 
us  out, — thou  little  Zoar,  where  we  prayed  that  we 
might  enter  from  the  storm  of  the  Lord, — vales, 
where  the  sounds  of  our  industry  have  arisen, — for- 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  77 

ests,  that  have  yielded  to  our  strokes, — homes  of  our 
happiness,  every  year  more  dear,  hallowed  by  the 
interchange  of  joy, — the  voice  of  supplication, — we 
bid  you  all  adieu !  Holy  Church  ! — consecrated  by 
our  united  prayers,  our  sacred  symphonies, — our 
hopes  that  rested  not  upon  this  earth,  we  bid  thee 
farewell,  in  the  name  of  the  Lord.  Wherever  we 
wander,  though  our  tears  should  drop  in  the  foun 
tains  of  strange  waters,  never  will  we  forget  thee, 
our  Zion  in  the  wilderness.  Lifeless  remains  of  the 
brave  and  the  beautiful,  the  virtuous  and  the  beloved, 
— severed  branches — crushed  blossoms — what  shall 
we  say  ? — Ah  !  how  often  will  our  mourning  hearts 
recall  your  images,  as  they  once  were,  as  they  now 
are,  stretched  in  ruins  before  us. 

Souls  of  our  departed  friends  ! — if  ye  have  attain 
ed  that  heaven  where  the  storm  beateth  not,  where 
tears  are  wiped  from  all  eyes  for  ever, — if  from  that 
clime  of  bliss,  ye  behold  us  compassed  with  infirm 
ity  and  woe,  teach  us  how  slight  all  the  thorns,  the 
tempests  of  this  pilgrimage,  seem  to  you,  now  you 
are  at  rest.  My  children,  what  awaits  it  where  we 
pitch  our  tents  for  the  brief  remnant  of  this  shadowy 
life  ? — what  avails  it,  if  the  angel  who  removeth  their 
curtains  in  a  moment,  but  find  the  spirit  ready  to  meet 
its  God?" 

He  ceased, — and  the  services  of  devotion  rose  in 
low  and  solemn  response  among  the  people.  Parents 
knelt  among  their  children,  and  with  one  voice  in 
voked  and  blessed  the  King  of  kings.  The  memory 
G2 


78  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

of  their  sorrows  and  fears,  for  a  season  fleeted  away 
on  the  soul's  high  aspiration,  as  the  pure  flame  dis- 
perseth  the  smoke  with  its  heavenward  spire.  Hands 
hardened  with  labor,  and  brows  pale  with  watching, 
the  tender,  tearful  eyes  of  the  mother  and  the  babe, 
were  alike  raised  upward,  while  they  gave  thanks  to 
the  Father  of  Mercies. 

A  pause  of  silence  ensued,  and  every  head  was 
bowed,  while  the  unuttered  individual  orison  as 
cended.  They  arose,  and  still  the  pause  continued. 
The  people  lingered  for  their  wonted  benediction. 

"  Part  we  hence,"  said  the  pastor, "  part  we  hence, 
without  one  sacred  melody  ?  While  the  fountain  of 
breath  is  unsealed,  shall  it  not  give  praise  to  the 
Preserver?" 

He  designated  a  plaintive  anthem,  from  the  se 
venth  of  Job.  It  burst  forth  harmoniously,  but  soon 
the  dirge-like  tones  became  tremulous.  After  the 
strain  "  Oh,  remember  that  my  life  is  wind,"  the 
cadence  was  protracted,  as  if  all  melody  had  ceased. 
Still  faintly,  the  music  revivified  : — "  As  the  cloud 
is  consumed  and  vanisheth  away,  so  he  that  goeth 
down  to  the  grave  shall  come  up  no  more.  He  shall 
return  no  more  to  his  house,  the  places  that  have 
known  him  shall  know  him  no  more." 

The  pastor  listened  as  one  who  hears  for  the  last 
time,  sounds  most  dear.  But  the  thrilling  strain  with 
which  the  anthem  closes,  commenced  so  feebly,  as 
to  be  scarce  audible.  It  trembled,  like  the  sighs  of 
a  broken  harp, — it  faltered, — one  or  two  quivering 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  79 

voices  prolonged  it  for  a  moment, — it  ceased, — and 
the  wail  of  sorrow  rose  up  in  its  stead.  Music  could 
no  longer  contend  against  the  tumultuous  tide  of 
grief. 

The  man  of  God  stood  up,  and  blessed  the  people, 
and  led  the  way  to  the  church-yard.  There,  upon 
the  fresh,  vernal  turf,  each  coffin  was  laid  by  its  open 
cell.  Kneeling  among  the  graves,  he  poured  forth 
fervent  supplications,  like  the  Prophet  of  Israel,  lift 
ing  his  censer  between  the  dead  and  the  living.  Tears 
were  upon  all  faces,  as  the  bodies  were  deposited  in 
their  narrow  house.  Children  sobbed  aloud,  and 
groans  burst  even  from  manly  bosoms,  as  the  earth, 
falling  upon  the  coffins,  sent  forth  that  hollow  sound, 
which  he  who  hath  paid  the  last  duties  to  the  be 
loved  dead,  hath  felt  in  his  inmost  soul,  but  never 
described. 

The  patriarchal  teacher  spoke,  and  into  every  tone 
his  overflowing  heart  poured  the  feeling  that  it  was 
for  the  last  time. 

"  Graves  of  our  friends  ! — those  that  have  been 
long  sealed,  and  those  now  enriched  with  new  trea 
sure,  we  thought  that  our  bones  should  here  have 
rested  with  you.  Looking  upon  your  turf-covering, 
how  often  have  we  said,  '  Here  shall  we  also  be  ga 
thered  unto  our  people  !'  Jehovah  humbleth  the  fore 
sight  of  man.  He  may  not  even  point  out  where  his 
bed  shall  be,  when  the  wasted  clay  falleth  like  a  fret 
ted  garment. 

"  Graves  of  our  friends  ! — We  part  from  you  to  re- 


80  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

turn  no  more.  Our  steps  may  no  more  wander  amid 
your  sacred  mounds,  nor  our  tears  nourish  your 
greenness.  Keep  what  we  have  intrusted  to  you, 
safe  in  your  cold  embrace,  until  summoned  to  re 
store  it,  by  the  voice  of  the  archangel,  and  the  trump 
of  God. 

"  My  children  !  what  were  man  without  the  pro 
mise  of  the  resurrection  ?  How  could  he  endure, 
when  the  grave  whelms  his  joys,  but  for  the  sure 
hope  of  eternal  life  1  How  could  he  dare  to  lay 
down  in  the  dreary  tomb,  in  all  the  misery  and  sin- 
fulness  of  his  nature,  but  for  the  merits  of  his  Re 
deemer  ?  Ah  !  what  would  be  now  our  mourning, 
if  forced  to  ask  in  uncertainty  and  anguish,  who  will 
roll  us  away  the  stone  from  the  door  of  these  sepul 
chres  ? 

"  Stricken  and  sorrowing  flock,  turn  again  unto  the 
Shepherd  of  your  souls.  He  hath  smitten,  and  he 
alone  can  heal.  He  hath  dispersed,  but  shall  again 
gather  you  into  his  fold.  He  hath  troubled  the  wa 
ters  that  were  at  rest.  But  the  angel  of  mercy  still 
waiteth  there, — the  wounded  spirits  shall  be  made 
whole." 

They  turned  from  the  place  of  sepulchres,  and  the 
next  sun  saw  their  simple  habitations  desolate.  Not 
a  sound  of  rural  labor  was  heard  there.  No  child 
ren  were  seen  searching  for  the  violets  which  early 
spring  had  awakened.  Scarcely  the  striking  of  the 
Arab  tents,  produces  a  more  profound  silence,  or  a 
wider  solitude.  The  sons  of  the  forest  roamed  at 


LEGEND    OP    OXFORD.  81 

will  among  the  tenantless  dwellings,  and  the  wild 
fox  found  in  their  ruins  a  covert  for  her  young. 

Nothing  now  remains  of  the  history  of  the  Hu 
guenots,  but  a  few  statistical  facts.  The  romance 
of  their  legendary  lore,  terminated  with  the  abdica 
tion  of  their  colony.  From  the  year  1700,  they  be 
came  incorporated  with  the  inhabitants  of  Boston. 
Their  habits  conciliated  respect  and  regard,  and  their 
character  is  still  maintained  by  their  descendants. 
In  1713,  the  lands  which  they  had  vacated  were 
occupied  by  a  second  colony,  who  still  retained  for 
their  settlement  and  for  the  river  that  environs  it,  the 
names  of  their  Huguenot  baptism.  The  pastor  Daille, 
beloved  almost  to  adoration  by  his  flock,  and  revered 
by  all  around  for  his  example  of  amiable  and  con 
sistent  piety,  was  taken  to  his  reward,  in  the  year 
1715.  His  successor  in  the  sacred  office  was  the 
Reverend  Andrew  de  Mercier,  author  of  the  "Church 
History  of  Geneva,  with  a  political  and  geographical 
account  of  that  Republic."  The  church,  which  it 
was  the  care  of  this  religious  people  to  erect  soon 
after  their  removal  to  Boston,  was  situated  where  the 
present  Universalist  Church,  in  School -Street,  now 
stands,  and  is  designated  in  the  records  of  that  date, 
as  the  "  French  Protestant  Church." 

May  I  be  forgiven  for  adding  one  more  matter  of 
fact,  as  an  additional  witness  to  the  integrity  of  my 
Legend  ?  In  the  Granary  Bury  ing- Ground  in  Bos 
ton,  two  lowly  graves  still  legibly  bear  the  simple 
inscription  of  the  "  Reverend  Pierre  Daille,  and 


82  LEGEND    OF    OXFORD. 

Scyre,  his  wife."  Yet  it  is  amid  the  fair  scenery 
of  Oxford,  that  we  gather  the  strongest  evidence  of 
the  truth  of  this  narration,  and  most  visibly  com 
mune  with  the  images  of  a  race,  whose  serene  pa 
tience,  and  unwavering  faith,  render  them  models 
of  primitive  devotion.  There,  a  gray-haired  man 
has  long  pointed  the  traveller  to  a  deep  hollow  in 
the  turf,  and  told  him,  "  This  is  the  spot  where  the 
house  of  Jeanson  stood,  the  French  Protestant,  who 
with  his  whole  family  were  here  massacred  by  the 
Indians." 

The  most  aged  inhabitants  of  that  pleasant  region 
assert,  that  within  their  remembrance,  the  empur 
pled  hearth-stone,  on  which  the  heads  of  those  beau 
tiful  babes  were  dashed,  was  still  seen,  resisting  with 
its  indelible  record  the  action  of  the  elements,  long 
after  every  other  wreck  of  the  dwelling  had  perish 
ed.  But  among  the  most  striking  vestiges  of  this 
interesting  people,  are  the  ruins  of  the  Fort  con 
structed  for  their  defence,  and  bearing  the  antiquity 
of  a  century  and  a  half.  There,  within  a  quadran 
gle  of  ninety  feet,  whence  the  stones  have  been  prin 
cipally  removed  in  the  processes  of  agriculture,  may 
be  still  traced,  the  well,  from  whence  they  drew 
water  in  their  rude,  foreign  home.  Asparagus,  from 
the  original  germs  of  France,  annually  lifts  its  bul 
bous  head  and  its  feathery  banner,  to  attest  the  iden 
tity  of  its  perished  plants.  Fruit-trees,  said  to  be 
descendants  from  their  ancient  nurseries,  still  flour 
ish,  and  are  entwined  by  the  coarse  vines,  and  en- 


LEGEND    OF    OXFORD.  83 

livened  by  the  deep  blush  of  the  indigenous  rose 
of  our  country,  fondly  striving  to  naturalize  the 
strangers. 

There  are  probably  some,  who  will  doubt  the 
truth  of  this  narrative,  and  still  more,  who  will  turn 
from  the  simple  vestiges  of  its  veracity  with  indiffer 
ence.  But  there  are  others  of  a  different  class,  who 
could  not  wander-amid  those  disjointed  stones,  once 
the  rude  barrier  against  the  ruder  savage,  nor  ex 
plore  through  matted  grass  the  paths  of  those  per 
secuted  and  peaceful  emigrants,  nor  reclining  be 
neath  the  shades  so  often  hallowed  by  their  prayers, 
recall  their  firmness  in  danger, — their  chastened  joy 
in  prosperity, — their  serene  and  saint-like  patience, 
in  affliction, — without  feeling  like  the  Law-giver  of 
Israel,  constrained  to  "  put  their  shoes  from  their 
feet,  because  the  ground  on  which  they  stand  is 
holy." 

Hartford,  November  30, 1833. 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 


Blest  be  that  art,  which  keeps  the  absent  near, — 
The  beautiful,  unchang'd, — from  Time's  rude  theft 
Guards  the  fresh  tint  of  childhood's  polish'd  brow,- 
And  when  Love  yields  its  idol  to  the  tomb, 
Doth  snatch  a  copy. 


LOVE  of  Fame,  has  been  called  by  philosophers, 
the  universal  passion.  The  desire  of  adhering  to 
the  memory  of  those  we  love,  is  an  integral  part  of 
our  nature.  We  need  not  turn  to  the  costly  mauso 
leum,  or  the  pyramid  on  the  sands  of  Africa,  to 
prove  this  "  longing  after  immortality."  It  is  equal 
ly  illustrated,  though  on  an  humbler  scale,  by  the 
boy,  who  climbs  a  tree,  to  carve  his  initials  on  its 
trunk, — the  student,  who  defaces  the  college  pre 
cincts  with  multiplications  of  his  nomenclature, — the 
guest,  who  graves  it  upon  the  grotto  of  his  host, 
— the  traveller,  who  inscribes  it  in  the  Alpine  Al 
bum. 

Yet  there  is  one  modification  of  this  sentiment,  at 
which  I  have  ever  marvelled,  viz, — the  bequeathing 
of  our  bodily  presence  to  posterity,  in  a  style  calcu 
lated  to  disgust,  or  alarm  them.  When  I  have  gazed 
at  Family  Portraits,  whose  ugliness  and  quaintness 
of  costume,  scarcely  the  deepest  reverence  for  their 
H 


86  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

antiquity  could  tolerate,  I  have  wondered  at  the  am 
bition  to  be  exhibited  to  one's  unborn  relatives,  in  a 
deformity  which  nature  never  gave.  It  is  but  a 
doubtful  compliment  to  the  master  of  an  ancient 
mansion,  to  be  obliged  to  contemplate  the  founder 
of  his  house,  perhaps  the  architect  of  its  fortunes, 
expanded  with  angular  joints,  and  an  idiotic  physi 
ognomy,  over  several  square  feet  of  canvas ;  and 
awkward  flattery  to  a  blooming  belle,  to  be  told  that 
the  demure,  ill-arrayed,  and  hideous  beings,  who 
stare  at  her  from  their  frames,  as  she  hurries  through 
some  unfrequented  apartment,  are  her  progenitors. 
Yet  there  are  remedies  for  such  mortifications, — a 
refuge  in  garrets, — a  deposit  among  lumber, — the 
teeth  of  rats, — the  voracious  perforation  of  worms. 
So  that  those  worthies,  who  in  their  prim  and  pro 
tracted  sittings  to  the  artist,  trusted  to  have  been  ho 
nored  as  the  Lares  and  Penates  of  their  descendants 
for  ever,  to  have  been  produced  as  the  Egyptian 
brings  forth  his  embalmed  ancestor,  to  preside  at  the 
banquet,  and  be  the  chief  ornament  of  the  festival, 
may  esteem  themselves  happy,  should  their  effigies 
escape  utter  annihilation. 

Why  I  have  been  led  to  this  train  of  moralizing, 
the  sequel  of  my  sketch  will  unfold.  The  opening 
of  its  simple  drama  is  in  Boston,  about  the  year 
1722.  According  to  the  most  authentic  statistics, 
it  then  comprised  a  population  not  exceeding  10,000, 
and  sustained  three  weekly  newspapers.  The  ex 
citing  objects  which  now  occupy  the  community^ — 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  87 

canals, — rail-roads, — and  the  transmigrations  of  the 
power  of  steam, — had  then  no  existence.  Had  any 
speculator  in  the  wildest  excursion  of  his  brain,  ven 
tured  to  present  such  visions  to  the  grave  politicians 
of  that  day,  his  reception  would  have  been  much 
like  that  of  Columbus,  when  before  the  University 
of  Salamanca,  he  broached  his  theory  of  an  undis 
covered  world,  amid  frowns  and  threats  of  the  Inqui 
sition. 

Still,  there  was  at  this  period,  no  paucity  of  sub 
jects  for  conversation :  and  the  most  engrossing  one, 
was  the  contested  system  of  Innoculation  for  the 
Small  Pox.  Divines  attacked  it  from  the  pulpit, 
styling  it,  "  an  invasion  of  heaven's  prerogative,  a 
most  sinful  lacking  of  faith,  a  high-handed  doing  of 
evil,  that  good  might  come."  Lady  Mary  Wortley 
Montagu  had  first  ventured  to  naturalize  this  Turk 
ish  practice  in  the  person  of  her  only  son  ;  and  Dr. 
Boylston,  of  Boston,  who  hazarded  the  experiment 
upon  his  son  and  servants,  with  a  happy,  result,  was 
pronounced  by  an  historian  of  the  day,  "  the  first 
physician  in  the  British  dominions,  that  had  dared 
such  a  deed."  Among  the  few  firm  advocates  of 
the  system  of  innoculation,  at  this  period,  was  Dr. 
John  Ranchon,  a  native  of  France.  He  had  resided 
a  number  of  years  in  Boston,  and  being  in  posses 
sion  of  a  competent  estate,  had  withdrawn  from  the 
labors  of  his  profession.  Still  he  could  not  but  sur 
vey  with  deep  anxiety  the  ravages  of  that  terrible 
disease,  which  during  the  year  1721,  had  swept 


88  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

nearly  800  persons  from  their  comparatively  sparse 
population. 

But,  de  facto,  our  business  is  with  this  same  Dr. 
Ranchon,  and  circumstances  which  transpired  in  his 
family,  more  than  with  any  dogmas  he  might  adopt 
respecting  the  science  of  Esculapius.  The  cause  of 
his  emigration  to  this  country,  was  the  expected  ven 
geance,  consequent  upon  a  clandestine  marriage. 
Louise  Beauchamp,  whom  he  loved,  and  whose  rank 
was  higher  than  his  own,  had  been  immured  by  her 
relations  in  a  convent,  to  prevent  their  anticipated 
union.  But  her  favorite  brother,  Edward  Beauchamp, 
favoring  the  pretensions  of  the  lover,  an  elopement 
ensued,  and  the  parties  immediately  embarked  for 
this  New  World.  The  young  and  beautiful  wife, 
after  the  residence  of  a  few  years  in  Boston,  gave 
birth  to  an  infant  daughter,  and  died.  The  bereaved 
husband,  in  devotion  to  this  little  orphan,  and  occa 
sional  intercourse  with  the  natives  of  his  own  coun 
try,  passed  most  of  his  time,  and  gradually  found 
solace.  A  colony  of  Huguenots,  who,  after  the  re 
vocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantz,  had  formed  a  settle 
ment  at  Oxford  in  Massachusetts,  and  were  driven 
thence  by  an  incursion  of  the  Indians,  had  fixed 
their  permanent  residence  in  Boston.  Among  these 
he  found  kindred  spirits,  and  extended  to  them  every 
office  of  kindness  and  hospitality. 

At  the  period  of  which  we  now  speak, — the  year 
1722, — he  had  arrived  at  his  grand  climacteric,  with 
robust  health,  and  an  unbroken  constitution.  He 


THE    FAMILY  PORTRAITS.  89 

possessed  an  irascible  temper,  and  a  decision  of  man 
ner  approaching  to  sternness,  yet  modified  by  native 
benevolence.  Though  somewhat  unpopular,  from 
his  strong  prejudices  and  disregard  of  courtesy,  he 
was  still  treated  with  deference  by  some  who  respect 
ed  his  professional  skill,  and  by  more  who  rendered 
homage  to.  his  wealth.  Especially  as  it  became 
generally  known,  that  he  had  an  only  daughter,  fair, 
and  approaching  woman's  estate ;  the  discerning 
beaux  were  particularly  assiduous  in  their  attentions. 
He  was  by  no  means  indifferent  to  the  flattery  of 
marked  politeness,  though  his  simplicity  of  heart 
induced  him  to  consider  it  as  a  spontaneous  tribute 
to  his  merits.  Yet  he  could  not  avoid  sometimes 
remarking,  in  his  curiously  laconic  style,  to  Beau- 
champ,  who  continued  a  member  of  his  household, — 

"  These  young  fellows  are  better  bred  than  their 
fathers.  The  coming  of  so  many  French  people 
to  live  here,  has  been  a  great  advantage,  no  doubt." 

His  brother,  more  a  man  of  the  world,  and  skil 
ful  in  decyphering  its  motives,  would  reply — 

"  Indeed,  the  young  men  of  the  city  seem  to  bow 
lower ,  as  your  daughter  Mary  rises  higher.  They 
carefully  proportion  their  attentions  to  her  increasing 
stature,  and  comfortable  expectations.  Ever  since 
her  fourteenth  birth-day,  a  rapid  improvement  in 
their  manners  has  been  visible.  Your  cane  cannot 
drop  in  the  market-place,  but  half-a-dozen  white 
hands  with  rings  and  ruffles,  are  thrust  forth  to  seize 
and  restore  the  precious  treasure  to  its  venerable 
H2 


90  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

owner.  Ten  years  since,  you  might  have  fallen  your 
self,  without  a  single  shrug  of  compassion  from  these 
exquisites.  Doubtless,  my  good  brother,  your  fame 
was  never  fully  understood,  until  Mary  became  its 
interpreter.  Happy  father  !  whose  beautiful  daugh 
ter  has  no  employment  for  her  tongue,  so  agreeable 
as  to  publish  his  excellencies." 

But  to  Dr.  Ranchon,  who  continued  to  view  Mary 
as  scarcely  emancipated  from  the  nursery,  and  who 
daily  addressed  her  by  his  favorite  appellation  of 
"  baby,"  the  hints  of  Beauchamp  were  altogether 
unintelligible.  He  still  persisted  in  the  course  which 
he  had  originally  adopted,  of  sending  her  to  the 
most  expensive  schools,  asking  her  once  a  week 
how  her  music  and  French  came  on,  and  praising 
every  flower  or  landscape  which  she  produced,  how 
ever  carelessly  executed.  Within  a  year  or  two, 
since  her  uncle  had  reminded  him  that  she  was  as 
tall  as  her  mother,  he  had  begun  to  inquire  if  she 
knew  what  went  to  the  composition  of  a  pudding, 
and  whether  she  could  "  foot  up  an  account  neatly, 
in  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  ?'  This  new  class 
of  interrogatories  he  usually  interlarded  with — 

"  Well !  well !  shan't  marry,  except  to  a  genuine 
Huguenot ! — remember  that !" 

Then  patting  her  cheeks,  as  the  blood  mantled 
higher  in  them,  would  bid  her  be  a  "  good  baby." 
This  injunction  respecting  marriage,  though  it  might 
seem  to  be  given  in  a  trifling  manner,  was  neverthe 
less  decided.  It  was  founded  on  the  old  gentleman's 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  91 

national  partialities,  which  were  exceedingly  strong, 
and  was  understood  by  his  family  to  rank  among 
those  few  positive  commands  of  the  Doctor's  which 
it  was  never  safe  to  disobey. 

Mary,  from  the  blind  indulgence  which  had  almost 
invariably  entered  into  her  education,  would  have 
been  in  imminent  danger,  had  it  not  been  for  a  large 
share  of  native  good  sense.  This,  however,  was 
inadequate  effectually  to  control  passions  naturally 
ardent,  or  to  eradicate  vanity  which,  had  her  look 
ing-glass  been  broken,  would  still  have  gathered  nu 
triment  from  the  flattery  of  her  school-companions. 
She  possessed  symmetry,  though  not  delicacy  of 
form,  a  profusion  of  raven  hair,  a  clear,  brown  com 
plexion,  quickened  by  a  bright  bloom,  and  a  dark, 
piercing  eye.  The  expression  of  her  countenance, 
varying  as  she  spoke,  would  have  rendered  her  pe 
culiarly  interesting,  had  not  her  striking  features 
betrayed  some  consciousness  of  their  own  power,  and 
the  curl  of  her  rose-tinted  lip  betokened  haughtiness. 
Still,  few  could  look  upon  Mary  Ranchon  in  the 
early  blush  of  womanhood,  without  repeating  the 
glance  ;  though  the  more  judicious  were  compelled  to 
temper  their  admiration  with  pity,  for  her  early  loss 
of  maternal  culture.  Her  self-exultation  was  held 
considerably  in  check,  by  the  penetrating  eye  of  her 
uncle,  whom  she  knew  to  be  a  better  judge  of 
female  elegance  than  her  father,  and  whose  keen 
sarcasms  she  exceedingly  dreaded. 

Beauchamp,  though  not  under  the  guidance  of  that 


92  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

refinement  which  appreciates  the  unostentatious  vir 
tue  of  the  sex,  if  unadorned  by  wealth  or  beauty, 
still  possessed  that  acute  perception  of  propriety, 
courtesy,  and  accomplishment,  which  springs  from 
intercourse  with  the  more  elevated  ranks  of  society, 
and  is  sometimes  rendered  even  more  watchful  by 
an  acquaintance  with  the  abandoned.  Love  for  his 
niece  prompted  him  to  permit  no  error  in  manner, 
no  consciousness  of  beauty  which  might  weaken  its 
effect,  to  pass  without  the  lash  of  his  satire.  Find 
ing  herself  the  object  of  such  close  criticism,  a  sal 
utary  restraint  was  laid  upon  a  deportment  which 
would  otherwise  have  been  wholly  without  control  ; 
and  while  she  shrank  from  the  wit  of  Beauchamp, 
she  respected  his  judgment.  She  could  not  but  per 
ceive  that  the  partiality  of  her  father  often  moved 
him  to  countenance,  or  even  to  applaud  in  her,  ac 
tions  and  expressions  which  conscience  told  her  de 
served  reproof.  Sometimes  when  she  quitted  the 
room  covered  with  blushes  of  chagrin  and  anger, 
because  some  questionable  deed  or  opinion  had  been 
placed  in  a  strong  light  by  her  uncle's  bold  raillery, 
the  kind-hearted  old  gentleman  would  say — 

"  Seems  to  me,  Ned,  you  are  rather  too  sharp  with 
the  girl — pretty  clever  body,  after  all." 

"  The  misfortune  is,  my  sapient  Doctor,  that  she 
is  altogether  too  clever  for  thy  straight-forward  ho 
nesty.  She  compasseth  thy  path,  and  thou  knowest 
it  not.  Thy  astronomy  is  baffled  by  the  "  chang 
ing  Cynthia  in  the  female  heart."  Thou  wert  never 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  93 

expert  in  computing  its  phases.  I  assure  thee,  that 
I  only  keep  a  brotherly  watch  over  thy  interests. 
Why,  baby  Mary,  as  you  call  her,  with  her  hot 
house  politics,  would  bring  a  plant  to  perfection, — 
germ,  flower,  and  fruit, — while  thou  wert  learnedly 
puzzling  over  its  botanical  genus." 

The  truth  was,  that  Mary  had  already  permitted 
herself  to  be  addressed  in  the  language  of  love.  Its 
foundation  had  been  in  a  thoughtless  emulation,  a 
proud  determination  not  to  be  outdone,  as  many 
young  ladies  at  the  boarding-school  where  she  at 
tended  as  a  day-scholar,  were  boasting  of  the  gallant 
ries  of  their  admirers.  Yet  as  he  who  tampers  with 
flame  is  not  always  certain  of  being  able  to  extin 
guish  it,  she  found  that  what  had  begun  in  vanity, 
threatened  to  end  in  pain.  The  man  whose  atten 
tions  she  encouraged,  scarce  knowing  that  she  did 
so,  was  her  senior  by  more  years  than  she  had  num 
bered,  and  no  novice  in  the  science  of  entrapping 
the  affections.  She  knew  little  respecting  him,  ex 
cept  that  he  was  called  Patten,  to  which  the  title  of 
Captain  was  appended, — that  his  exterior  and  style 
of  conversation  were  imposing, — and  that  he  was 
extravagantly  praised  for  elegance  of  dress  and  man 
ner,  by  her  giddy  associates.  But  she  was  also 
apprized  that  he  was  a  native  of  Ireland,  and  conse 
quently,  without  the  line  of  her  father's  demarcation. 
She  continually  promised  herself  that  should  the 
affair  take  the  form  of  serious  declaration,  to  repulse 
all  proposals  and  be  governed  solely  by  filial  duty. 


94  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

But  her  hand  was  upon  the  mane  of  the  lion,  and 
she  knew  it  not.  Her  lover  readily  perceived  that 
she  had  too  much  feeling  for  a  coquette,  and  decided 
to  protract  his  operations,  until  by  inducing  her  to 
accept,  under  the  mask  of  friendship,  those  attentions 
which  belong  to  love,  her  generosity  or  her  gratitude 
should  at  length  render  her  unable  to  repel  his  se 
rious  advances. 

His  desigj  was  to  possess  himself  of  her  fortune, 
and  he  saw  no  practicable  avenue  to  this  point,  but 
through  her  affections.  He  therefore  made  his  ap 
proaches  with  that  combination  of  perfect  respect 
and  tender  observance,  against  which  the  heart  of  a 
female  is  seldom  proof.  The  prohibition  of  her  fa 
ther,  which  had  reached  him  by  the  voice  of  rumor, 
rendered  his  visits  at  the  house  inadmissible.  Hence 
their  interviews  were  limited  to  the  school  which 
Mary  attended,  where  they  were  imprudently  con 
nived  at  by  her  governess.  She  feared  even  to  accept 
him  as  a  companion  in  a  walk  or  ride,  lest  Beau- 
champ,  who  was  a  man  of  leisure,  and  continually 
traversing  the  streets,  should  detect  the  acquaintance. 
Yet,  though  her  lover  was  fully  sensible  of  the  ad 
vantage  which  he  had  gained,  in  persuading  her  to 
accept  concealed  attentions,  she  could  not  long  per 
sist  in  such  a  course  without  self-reproach.  She  en 
dured  the  remorse  of  a  generous  mind,  which,  find 
ing  itself  involved  in  the  mazes  of  duplicity,  gradu 
ally  loses  the  power  of  retracing  its  path.  Some 
times  she  resolved  to  reveal  the  whole  to  her  father, 


THE    FAMILY     PORTRAITS.  95 

and  throw  herself  upon  his  compassion  :  again  she 
saw  her  lover,  and  the  resolution  vanished  before  his 
powers  of  fascination.  With  the  simplicity  of  a 
first-love,  she  began  to  regard  his  protestations  as 
truth,  to  believe  that  his  felicity  was  indeed  at  her 
disposal,  and  that  her  smile  or  frown  was  to  be  the 
arbiter  of  his  destiny.  She  became  uneasy  thus  to 
trifle  with  the  happiness  of  one  so  perfectly  subser 
vient  to  her  wishes,  and  who  constantly  assured  her 
that  he  would  rejoice  to  lay  down  life  for  her  sake. 
Should  any  grave  female  within  the  safe  precincts 
of  single  blessedness,  condemn  this  credulity,  as 
peculiar  weakness  of  mind,  let  her  retrace  the  an 
nals  of  her  own  romantic  days,  and  inquire  if  there 
is  no  vestige  of  sympathy  with  Mary  ;  and  though 
she  may  not  have  partaken  in  her  follies,  let  her  ask 
if  she  rose  wholly  superior  to  her  delusions. 

Captain  Patten  now  supposed  that  he  had  gained 
an  eminence  from  whence  the  attack  might  be  suc 
cessfully  opened.  He  pressed  for  permission  to  soli 
cit  her  father  to  sanction  his  addresses.  This  was 
what  she  could  not  grant, — but  ah  !  the  dismission 
which  she  had  always  promised  herself  should  meet 
such  a  proposal,  was  withheld  by  the  hesitancy  of 
her  traitorous  affections.  Angry  at  her  want  of 
decision,  she  yielded  to  all  the  miseries  of  mental 
conflict, — like  the  man  who,  half  a  convert  to  piety 
and  half  the  servant  of  sin,  "  resolves,  and  re-re 
solves, — then  dies  the  same."  The  tumult  of  her 
spirits  created  a  temporary  indisposition,  and  she  con- 


96  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

fined  herself  to  her  chamber.  Madelaine  Dubelde, 
a  waiting-maid,  who  had  attended  her  mother  in  her 
removal  from  France,  and  since  her  death  had  gra 
dually  elevated  herself  into  the  office  of  house-keep 
er,  and  humble  companion  to  her  young  mistress, 
endeavored  to  divert  her  chagrin  by  such  conversa 
tion  as  would  best  have  dissipated  her  own. 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle  !  if  you  were  but  in  Paris,  with 
that  beautiful  face,  and  that  air  so  graceful,  so  de- 
gagee,  you  would  have  no  time  for  such  terrible  fits 
of  ennui.  Why,  you  would  be  followed  by  more 
adorers  than  could  stand  upon  the  common.  Not 
such  dowdies  as  you  see  in  this  country,  who  dare 
not  look  at  or  speak  to  a  young  lady,  when  they 
meet  her.  Oh  Mon  Dieu  !  I  had  rather  have  a  lodge 
in  the  crookedest  part  of  the  Rue  St.  Denis,  than 
the  grandest  house  in  the  whole  of  this  mean  village 
of  Boston.  I  certainly  have  seen  nothing  fit  to  eat 
or  drink,  since  I  came  to  this  vile  America.  I  am 
sure  I  should  never  have  become  such  a  perfect  rack- 
a-bone,  if  any  thing  could  have  been  found  here,  which 
a  lady  ought  to  eat.  Why,  dear  Mademoiselle,  if  we 
were  only  in  France,  you  would  have  been  present 
ed  at  court  by  your  mother's  relations,  long  before 
this, — and  think  what  a  stir  you  would  have  made 
among  the  princes  of  the  blood !  Now  here  you  sit 
moping,  day  after  day,  like  a  creature  shut  up  in  a 
pound.  I  am  absolutely  afraid  you  will  lose  your 
senses,  and  I  cannot  see  you  suffering  as  you  do, 
without  thinking  of  some  beautiful  lines  of  a  great 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  97 

French  poet,  about  a  rose  fading  in  the  wilderness. 
Once  I  could  say  them  all  by  heart,  and  sing  them 
too,  but  I  have  lost  my  memory,  and  my  voice,  and 
every  thing  else,  since  I  have  been  obliged  to  breathe 
the  dull,  heavy  air  of  Boston.  Why,  your  father 
invites  nobody  to  visit  at  the  house,  but  a  parcel  of 
half-starved  Huguenots.  I  wonder  which  of  them 
he  proposes  shall  swallow  you  alive.  I  hope  I  shall 
not  live  to  see  the  day.  Your  mother  would  have 
looked  a  deal  higher  for  you.  She  was  the  right 
sort,  you  may  depend.  But  she  grew  melancholy 
after  coming  to  this  land  of  wild  beasts,  and  was  not 
the  shadow  of  her  former  self.  You  can  judge  a 
little  by  Beauchamp,  how  she  once  looked.  He  has 
not  the  air  of  these  yankee  bodies." 

"  Did  my  mother  resemble  Beauchamp  ?"  inquired 
Mary,  yawning,  and  desirous  to  turn  the  channel  of 
discourse  from  herself. 

"  Something  between  Monsieur  Beauchamp  and 
yourself,"  replied  the  waiting-maid,  "  would  be  more 
as  she  was  in  the  height  of  her  beauty.  She  was 
like  Venus,  in  that  picture  in  your  uncle's  cham 
ber,  where  Paris  (I  believe  it  was  he  who  built 
the  city  of  Paris,)  is  choosing  between  three  god 
desses." 

"  Why  did  not  my  father  have  her  portrait  taken  ?" 

"  He  did,  several  years  before  your  birth.  I  always 
told  him  that  nobody  but  one  of  the  court  painters 
from  France  was  fit  to  do  it.  But  he  must  needs 
patronize  the  jackasses  of  this  country.  So  there  the 


98  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

poor  lady  sat  face  to  face  with  one  of  them,  to  please 
her  husband,  day  after  day,  till  she  was  ready  to 
faint  with  disgust.  But  when  it  was  done,  O  Lord  ! 
— the  thoughts  of  it  drive  me  mad.  It  was  so  bolt 
upright,  so  stiff,  staring,  and  with  such  an  abomina 
bly  silly  expression,  so  entirely  out  of  character, 
holding  in  one  hand  a  huge  bunch  of  pinks  and 
marigolds,  and  in  the  other,  a  book,  looking  vastly 
like  a  bible,  which  was  quite  as  much  out  of  charac 
ter  too,  for  she  had  too  much  good  sense  to  put  her 
eyes  out,  with  poring  over  dull,  godly  books. 

"  When  Beauchamp  saw  the  production,  he  told 
the  painter  to  take  it  with  him  to  the  devil ;  but  your 
father  thought  it  had  better  be  hung  up  a  while  for 
the  colors  to  mellow.  At  last  it  proved  rather  too 
bad  even  for  him,  though  he  did  not  say  much  about 
it.  One  day,  I  smelt  smoke,  and  an  awful  odour  of 
oil,  and  ran  into  the  dining-room,  screaming, — 
*  Lord,  Sir !  the  house  is  on  fire.'  What  do  you 
think  I  saw,  but  that  vile  picture,  split  all  to  pieces, 
and  laid  on  the  fire,  burning  with  a  terrible  flame, 
and  the  old  gentleman  thrusting  it  in  further  with  his 
cane,  never  speaking  a  word,  or  so  much  as  turning 
his  head  towards  me." 

"  How  old  was  my  mother,  when  she  left  her 
native  country  ?" 

"  Just  your  own  age,  my  sweet  Mademoiselle, 
about  sixteen.  I  never  saw  any  mortal  being  so 
resplendent  as  she  was,  the  night  of  her  escape  from 
the  convent.  Down  she  came  by  a  ladder  of  ropes 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  99 

from  a  high  window,  that  would  make  your  poor 
weak  head  dizzy  to  look  up  at.  Monsieur  Beau- 
champ  held  it  firm,  and  carried  her  in  his  arms  to 
the  carriage  which  waited  in  a  dark  thicket  at  the 
end  of  the  avenue.  There  was  I  in  it,  and  your 
father  standing  near,  and  the  two  postilions  drove 
like  lightning  till  we  reached  the  coast,  where  a  priest 
performed  the  ceremony,  and  we  all  embarked  with 
out  a  moment's  delay.  When  she  was  first  brought 
to  the  coach,  she  was  as  white  as  your  robe,  but  as 
soon  as  she  found  herself  out  of  the  clutches  of  the 
nuns  and  their  tribe,  and  safe  with  me,  and  her 
lover,  and  her  brother,  she  dazzled  like  a  wreath  of 
rubies  and  diamonds.  If  she  had  not  shown  her 
Beauchamp  blood,  and  ran  away  just  at  that  time, 
she  would  have  been  moped  to  death  in  a  convent, 
just  as  you  are  likely  to  be  in  your  own  father's 
house." 

This  episode  touched  a  chord  that  vibrated  pain 
fully,  for  Mary's  lover  at  their  last  interview  had 
urged  her  to  an  elopement,  and  though  she  had  re 
jected  the  proposal  with  spirit,  it  still  remained  as  a 
thorn  in  her  memory,  as  a  thing  to  which  she  ought 
never  to  have  listened. 

"  Dubelde,"  said  she,  "  I  wish  for  rest.  You  for 
get  that  your  tongue  has  been  in  motion  without 
cessation,  these  two  hours." 

"  Two  hours ! — Oh  mon  Dieu ! — It  is  just  five 
minutes  by  my  watch,  since  I  came  up  from  order 
ing  Bridget  about  the  ragout.  The  stupid  wretch ! — 


100  THE    FAMTLY    PORTRAITS. 

I  dare  say  she'll  spoil  it.  Not  a  soup  have  I  seen 
in  this  country,  that  would  not  turn  the  stomach  of 
a  horse.  Why,  we  had  scarcely  been  here  a  month, 
when  I  sent  to  the  market  for  some  frogs,  thinking 
to  make  a  pasty  myself,  to  tempt  your  mother's 
palate,  for  she  was  even  then  beginning  to  pine  away 
with  starvation.  Would  you  believe  it ! — the  beast 
of  a  servant  never  returned  till  night,  and  then  came 
bringing  a  huge  pot  of  vile,  fat  toads,  for  which  he 
said  the  market-man  must  have  six  livres,  having 
spent  most  of  the  day  in  hunting  them.  Your  poor 
mother  was  not  the  shadow  of  herself,  for  years 
before  you  were  born.  And  you  are  in  the  same 
way,  I  perceive.  All  your  charming  naivete  quite 
gone.  You  cannot  even  bear  a  few  minutes'  discourse 
with  a  friend.  Ma  foi ! — But  how  can  I  wonder, 
when  I  am  so  changed  myself?  My  nerves  have 
been  shattered  by  hearing  of  the  horrid  Indian  sav 
ages  of  this  country.  And  my  eyes, — it  does  not 
become  me,  to  be  sure,  to  tell  what  was  said  of  them 
in  France, — but  one  might  be  apt  to  think  that  time 
had  changed  them.  No  such  thing, — it's  more  sor 
row,  and  weeping  after  Paris.  More  than  once, 
when  I  have  been  walking  on  the  Louvre,  a  great 
Prince,  brother  to  Louis  the  king,  has  bowed  to  me. 
I  suppose  he  mistook  me  for  one  of  the  Duchesses. 
But  you  must  not  speak  of  that,  Mademoiselle.  Lord  ! 
I  dare  say  you  did  not  so  much  as  hear  me,  for  you 
are  dying  with  sleep." 

Mary  was  relieved  by  the  absence  of  her  waiting- 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  101 

woman,  who,  like  many  other  persons  of  a  low  mind, 
thought  to  magnify  her  consequence  by  a  strain  of 
discontentment,  and  expatiating  on  the  superior  ad 
vantages  of  a  former  situation.  Dr.  Ranchon  received 
immediate  information  from  her,  that  her  young 
mistress  was  in  a  fixed  consumption,  and  that  no 
thing  but  a  voyage  to  France  could  possibly  restore 
her.  Credulous,  and  prone  to  agitation,  where  his 
daughter  was  concerned,  he  ransacked  his  library 
for  authors  who  had  written  upon  this  disease,  col 
lected  his  antiquated  manuscripts  to  search  for  cases 
within  the  range  of  his  own  practice,  and  turned  the 
whole  current  of  his  thoughts  and  conversation  upon 
the  phthisis  pulmonalis. 

A  few  evenings  after  the  communication  of  this 
intelligence,  as  Dubelde  was  assisting  her  young 
lady  to  retire,  she  began  in  a  whimpering  tone  to 
upbraid  her  want  of  confidence. 

"  Madelaine,"  she  exclaimed,  "  what  have  I  con 
cealed,  which  was  proper  for  you  to  know  ?" 

"  Alas  !  every  thing,"  replied  the  querulous  dam 
sel.  "  Have  I  not  carried  you  in  these  arms  whole 
years,  and  accompanied  your  mother  in  her  flight 
across  the  tossing  ocean  ?  And  now  to  be  treated 
like  an  underling.  Ah,  mon  coeur  !  She  never 
would  have  done  so.  Why,  here  is  the  story  of 
your  love,  and  your  marriage  that  is  to  be,  all  over 
town,  and  I  never  to  be  told  a  breath  of  it." 

"All  over  town  ! — Explain  yourself,"  said  Mary, 
letting  her  long  and  beautiful  hair  fall  uncurled  over 
12 


102  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

her  shoulders,  and  seating  herself  in  deep  surprise 
on  the  side  of  the  bed,  her  night-robe  flowing  in  loose 
and  graceful  drapery  around  her. 

"  O,  that  air  of  astonishment  is  vastly  becoming," 
replied  Dubelde ;  "  only  it  brings  rather  too  fine  a 
color  over  the  brow,  for  a  lady  already  so  far  gone 
in  a  hectic.  There  was  I,  and  your  poor  father, 
fretting  ourselves  to  death  about  asses'  milk,  and 
how  to  make  you  put  on  flannel,  and  he  was  dis 
tracted  to  have  a  monstrous  blister  laid  upon  your 
breast,  though  I  told  him  he  might  as  well  undertake 
to  persuade  you  to  have  your  head  cut  off.  But  after 
all,  it  seems  that  you  are  likely  to  let  the  doctors 
alone,  and  die  a  natural  death  at  last,  since  all  this 
alarm  is  only  an  affair  of  the  heart,  as  Monsieur 
Beauchamp  says." 

"  My  uncle  ! — What  does  he  know  of  this  strange 
story  of  yours  ?"  inquired  Mary  with  evident  alarm. 

"  Nothing  that  I  know  of,"  answered  Dubelde, 
"  and  he  never  would  have  heard  it  from  me,  had 
you  but  seen  fit  to  honor  me  with  your  secret.  I 
have  had  grander  love-matters  than  yours,  brought 
me  for  advice,  I  assure  you,  young  lady.  I  have  had 
experience  enough  too,  in  such  sort  of  things  myself, 
(forcing  a  sigh) — to  be  a  counsellor.  But  courting 
is  nothing  in  this  country  to  what  it  is  in  France." 

"  How  did  you  obtain  the  information  of  which  you 
speak  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"  How  did  I  obtain  it  ? — Oh,  to  be  sure ! — What 
if  I  should  take  it  into  my  head  to  be  as  close-mouth- 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  103 

ed  as  other  people  ?  Why,  if  I  must  tell,  I  obtained 
it  in  the  streets,  where  it  is  in  every  body's  mouth 
for  aught  I  know.  I  saw  the  man  with  my  own 
eyes,  Madam.  He  is  a  perfect  Adonis.  I  had  never 
expected  to  see  such  grace  and  symmetry  in  this 
land  of  savages.  He  is  the  very  picture  of  the  prince 
who  bowed  to  me  on  the  Louvre,  only  he  is  rather 
more  em-bon-point,  and  his  shoulders  a  trifle  broader. 
But  such  life  and  spirit,  ma  foi ! — and  such  a  fine 
dress, — a  perfect  courtier  too,  in  speech  and  voice." 

"  Speech  and  voice  ! — Of  whom  are  you  under 
taking  to  prate  ?" 

"  Why,  of  Captain  Patten.  Who  did  your  lady 
ship  suppose?  I  should  not  have  mentioned  his 
voice,  to  be  sure ;  I  only  meant  to  have  said,  what  it 
would  be  if  he  had  spoken,  for  high-bred  gentlemen 
always  abound  in  fine  words.  I  had  been  walking  up 
Winter-street,  for  a  little  airing,  as  you  know  I  have 
been  moped  to  death  in  your  chamber  for  more  than 
this  whole  week,  and  I  saw  him  coming  down  the 
mall.  I  could  do  no  less  than  just  stop  to  admire  him, 
for  I  thought  he  must  be  some  foreign  prince.  Who 
is  that  ?  says  I.  Why,  don't  you  know  ?  says  they.  It 
is  Captain  Patten,  Miss  Mary  Ranchon's  admirer. 
You  don't  say  so  ?  says  I.  Oh,  the  wedding-dresses 
are  all  made,  says  they,  and  she  is  going  to  settle 
on  him  the  whole  of  her  mother's  fortune,  because 
that  is  at  her  disposal.  See,  he  wants  to  speak  to 
you,  says  they." 

"Says  who?"  interrupted  the  young  lady,  in 
dignantly. 


104  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

"  Why,  they  that  was  with  me,  to  be  sure.  Peo 
ple  need  not  be  so  mighty  inquisitive  unless  they 
could  contrive  to  show  a  little  more  frankness  them 
selves.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  stopped  one  mo 
ment,  and  he  came  directly  up.  Such  a  bow  I  have 
not  seen,  since  I  turned  my  back  on  dear  Paris. 
'  Mademoiselle  Madelaine  Dubelde,  I  presume,'  said 
he.  Lord  !  how  should  he  know  my  name.  I  was 
abashed  at  such  politeness,  and  felt  my  cheeks  red 
der  than  a  piony.  '  You  are,  I  understand,'  he  went 
on,  '  a  particular  friend  of  that  paragon  of  beauty 
and  loveliness,  who  holds  my  heart  as  the  fowler 
holds  the  pierced  bird.  Commend  me  most  favor 
ably  to  her  clemency,  and  say'  " 

"Dubelde,"  rejoined  Mary,  with  all  her  father's 
sternness,  which  she  well  knew  how  to  assume, — 
"  either  speak  the  truth,  or  leave  my  presence." 

The  narrator,  regarding  her  eye  for  a  moment, 
and  perceiving  that  her  tissue  had  been  woven  with 
too  little  art,  and  that  falsehood  could  not  elude  the 
quick  penetration  of  her  mistress,  laid  aside  the  flip 
pancy  which  had  hitherto  marked  her  recital,  and 
thus  proceeded, — 

"  Since  a  slight  embellishment  so  much  offends 
your  delicate  nerves,  I  will  give  you  the  plain  fact.  I 
was  accosted,  as  I  came  from  the  market,  by  a  fine- 
looking  man,  who,  after  mentioning  his  name,  and 
inquiring  earnestly  after  your  health,  begged  me  to 
deliver  you  this  letter,  and  suddenly  vanished  among 
the  crowd." 


THE    FAMILY  PORTRAITS.  105 

"  I  shall  not  take  the  letter." 

"  As  you  please,  Madam.  I  shall  just  lay  it  on 
your  dressing-table.  It  will  do  no  harm  there,  I 
trust.  It  is  a  mere  complimentary  note,  I  dare  say, 
and  sealed  just  like  the  court  billetdoux." 

Mary  desired  to  be  left  alone,  and  throwing  her 
self  upon  her  couch,  ruminated  painfully.  She  was 
confounded  at  the  rashness  of  Patten,  in  thus  reveal 
ing  himself  to  Dubelde,  and  felt  there  was  great 
hazard  in  trusting  one  so  naturally  indiscreet,  and 
whose  confidence  she  had  taken  no  care  to  propitiate. 
Again  she  recalled  the  circumstances  of  her  last 
interview  with  her  lover,  and  blamed  herself  as  the 
cause  of  his  precipitation,  by  the  anger  which  she 
had  testified  at  his  solicitation  to  elopement,  and  by 
her  subsequent  seclusion  from  him.  Sometimes  she 
condemned  herself  for  evincing  too  much  spirit ;  then 
for  not  assuming  enough  to  reject  him  utterly. 

Still  she  was  determined  not  to  read  his  letter. 
What  could  he  possibly  say  in  it,  more  than  he  had 
said?  A  tumult  of  thought  banished  sleep  until 
midnight.  She  rose  to  extinguish  the  lamp  which 
beamed  too  strongly  upon  her  eyes.  The  letter  lay 
near  it  upon  her  toilette.  It  was  sealed  with  a  head 
of  Venus.  The  writing  was  elegant.  What  harm 
could  arise  from  just  looking  at  its  contents  ?  Would 
it  not  be  wiser  to  read  it,  and  then  inclose  it  in  a 
note,  commanding  him  to  forget  her  ?  Perchance, 
thus  reasoned  our  mother,  when  beneath  the  fatal 
tree  in  Paradise,  "she  plucked,  she  ate."  The 


106  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

maiden  trimmed  her  decaying  lamp.  •  Twice  she 
took  the  letter,  and  twice  restored  it  to  its  place,  ere 
she  broke  the  seal.  She  perused  it,  and  it  fell  to  the 
floor.  Reclining  her  head  upon  her  hand,  while  her 
luxuriant  tresses  fell  around  her  like  a  veil,  she  con 
templated  its  pages  with  an  air  of  vacancy,  and  with 
scarcely  a  connected  thought,  until  advancing  dawn 
admonished  her  to  retire.  She  rested  her  throbbing 
temples  upon  the  pillow,  but  no  slumber  visited  her. 
The  bitterness  of  self-reproach,  and  the  collision  of 
love  with  duty,  rendered  her  an  object  of  commiser 
ation.  The  letter  contained  ardent  protestations  of 
attachment, — deprecated  the  misery  which  the  ru 
mor  of  her  ill-health  had  caused  him, — conjured  her 
to  suffer  him  to  remove  the  veil  which  had  so  long 
concealed  his  faithful  love,  and  ventured  to  urge  that 
if  her  father  should  prove  inexorable  to  his  prayers, 
she  would  not  shrink  from  a  step  which  many  of  the 
most  excellent  of  her  sex  had  taken,  nor  condemn 
to  eternal  despair,  a  heart  devoted  to  but  one  object 
with  unalterable  fidelity.  Nothing  was  written 
which  had  not  been  previously  adduced,  but  the  ar 
guments  seemed  to  gather  strength  by  condensation. 
An  eye  accustomed  to  the  vernacular  of  love-epistles 
would  have  discovered  in  this,  more  of  studied  ar 
rangement  than  of  artless  passion,  with  somewhat 
of  that  style  which  betrays  expectation  of  success. 
But  to  a  novice,  with  an  advocate  in  her  own  bosom, 
the  appeal,  if  not  irresistible,  was  at  least  dangerous. 
It  rendered  the  writer  an  object  of  more  undivided 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  107 

contemplation,  and  the  lover  who  succeeds  in  mono 
polizing  the  thoughts  of  an  innocent  heart,  is  like 
the  conqueror  who  cuts  off  the  channels  of  supply 
from  a  besieged  citadel.  Madelaine  found  her  young 
lady  in  the  morning,  changed  both  in  appearance 
and  manner,  and  with  rapture  listened  to  the  request 
not  to  divulge  her  secret. 

"  Never  fear  me,  my  sweet  Mademoiselle,"  she 
answered :  "  it  is  safe  as  in  your  double-locked  cas 
ket.  Now  you  will  be  well  again, — at  least  I- must 
tell  my  master  so,  for  he  is  in  such  a  panic,  that  he 
will  be  sure  to  lay  on  a  blister  as  big  as  a  Parmesan 
cheese  before  night.  But,  Lord  !  how  shockingly  pale 
you  look  !  Just  touch  a  little  of  my  rouge  to  your 
beautiful  cheeks.  Mon  Dieu  !  how  awfully  obstinate 
you  are  !  It  won't  hurt  your  complexion, — you  may 
tell  that  by  mine.  It  only  keeps  one  from  looking 
like  a  downright  fright.  The  finest  complexions  on 
earth  would  be  utterly  ruined,  by  the  vile  easterly 
winds  that  are  for  ever  blowing  here.  I  protest  that 
even  mine  is  hardly  fit  to  be  seen  now,  though  it 
was  so  much  admired  in  France.  But,  my  lovely 
creature,  I  am  delighted  that  you  have  read  that 
charming  letter ;"  bending  towards  it  with  intense 
curiosity. 

Mary,  blushing  at  her  faithlessness  to  her  own 
resolutions,  snatched  it  from  the  carpet,  and  press 
ing  it  together,  hid  it  in  her  bosom.  This  was  the 
most  wretched  day  that  she  had  ever  passed.  Com 
pelled  to  counterfeit  cheerfulness  during  the  visits  of 


108  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

her  father,  in  order  to  countenance  the  report  of  her 
recovery,  she  reproached  herself  for  duplicity,  until 
she  loathed  her  very  being.  When  she  observed 
his  eyes  resting  upon  her  with  affectionate  solicitude, 
she  wished  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet,  and  acknow 
ledge  that  she  was  unworthy  to  be  called  his  child. 
Dreading  the  scrutiny  of  Beauchamp's  glance,  she 
excused  herself  from  his  proffered  visit,  with  the 
promise  of  appearing  below  on  the  ensuing  day. 
The  attentions  of  the  waiting-maid  were  indefatiga 
ble,  and  her  exultation  as  extreme,  as  if  she  had 
again  been  promenading  the  Louvre,  and  receiving 
a  bow  from  some  imagined  Prince.  Her  extravagant 
praises  of  Patten  would  have  excited  suspicion  that 
she  was  bribed  to  his  interest,  had  the  mind  of  her 
mistress  been  sufficiently  at  ease  for  clear  investiga 
tion.  So  much  had  poor  Mary  sunk  in  her  own 
opinion,  that  not  only  was  the  impertinence  of  the 
menial  tolerated,  but  even  her  suggestions  accom 
panied  with  some  degree  of  influence. 

"Why,  an  elopement  is  no  such  terrible  thing,  my 
adored  lady.  Your  mother  did  it  before  you,  and 
your  father,  of  all  men,  would  have  no  right  to  com 
plain.  A  few  words  before  the  priest,  a  short  jour 
ney,  return  home,  with  a  shower  of  tears,  would 
appease  the  old  gentleman,  and  then  all  set  off  toge 
ther  somewhere, — to  France,  I  hope, — Ah  !  how  de 
lightful.  But  suppose,  Mademoiselle,  you  dismiss  this 
elegant  lover,  as  your  heart  does  not  seem  very  sus 
ceptible,  and  so  marry  one  of  these  starveling  Hu- 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  109 

guenots.  Perhaps  you  would  prefer  one  of  that  queer 
sort  of  bodies.  Well,  there 's  no  accounting  for 
tastes,  and  every  one  has  a  right  to  choose  their  own 
den,  as  the  bears  say,  in  the  fable.  You  '11  be  set  to 
work  like  an  ox,  and  what  good  will  your  guitar  or 
your  piano  do  ye,  where  no  music  but  the  whirling 
of  a  spinning-wheel  is  desired  or  understood  1  You 
can  do  it,  I  suppose,  if  you  prefer  it,  and  so  have 
nothing  fit  to  eat,  or  decent  to  wear,  and  pine  away 
and  die,  like  your  poor  dear  mother.  But  if  you 
can't  quite  bring  your  stomach  to  that,  what 's  to  be 
got  by  waiting  ?  How  long  will  it  be,  before  Beau- 
champ  will  hear  this  news  in  the  streets  ?  And  how 
long,  think  ye,  will  he  keep  it  from  your  father  1  O, 
mon  Dieu !  what  a  terrible  storm  will  be  then.  Much 
worse,  than  if  you  had  eloped  and  got  back  again, 
for  then  he  would  have  to  make  the  best  of  what 
could  not  be  helped,  and  there  would  be  only  a  show 
of  anger  with  a  yearning  heart  underneath,  and  so 
delighted  would  he  be  to  see  you,  that  he  would  soon 
drop  his  frowning  mask,  and  in  one  month's  time, 
I  promise  you,  would  be  proud  of  such -a  son-in- 
law." 

Mary  did  not  admit  the  force  of  these  arguments, 
but  she  evidently  listened  to  them,  and  on  such  a 
point,  "  the  woman  who  deliberates  is  lost."  That 
night,  as  she  was  about  to  retire,  exhausted  for  want 
of  repose,  but  with  little  expectation  of  enjoying  it, 
she  was  startled  at  the  sound  of  a  violincello,  direct 
ly  under  her  window. 

K 


110  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

Alarmed  lest  the  proximity  of  her  uncle's  cham 
ber  should  occasion  her  some  embarrassing  ques 
tions  respecting  the  serenade,  she  bent  from  the 
window,  and  seeing  the  form  of  Patten  indistinctly 
by  the  light  of  the  moon,  motioned  with  her  hand 
peremptorily  for  him  to  retire.  Still  the  strain  con 
tinued  its  impassioned  melody.  Bending  lower  from 
the  casement,  she  said  in  a  tone  scarcely  audible, — 

"  Go  ! — I  command  you." 

He  obeyed, — but  again  from  a  great  distance,  she 
caught  the  echo  of  a  different  lay,  which  was  a  fa 
vorite  among  her  companions.  Almost  the  words  of 
its  chorus  seemed  to  be  articulated,  so  perfect  was 
the  modulation : — 

"  I  go,  proud  heart ! — Remember  me, — 
Remember  him,  who  dies  for  thee." 

This  occurrence  effectually  prevented  her  slum 
bers  for  another  night,  and  she  rose  with  disordered 
nerves,  and  a  tremulous  anxiety  of  spirit.  Hearing 
that  she  was  expected  in  the  breakfast  parlor,  she 
hastily  arranged  her  dress,  and  required  repeated 
assurances  from  Dubelde,  that  Beauchamp  could 
possibly  know  nothing  of  her  secret,  ere  she  ven 
tured  into  his  presence.  He  met  her  at  the  staircase, 
and  taking  her  hand,  led  her  into  the  breakfast-room, 
but  forbore  any  except  general  inquiries  about  her 
health,  and  regarded  her  with  so  little  scrutiny,  that 
she  felt  at  ease,  and  resumed  something  of  her  native 
hilarity.  Dr.  Ranchon  was  so  delighted  at  her  re 
appearance,  that  he  could  scarcely  take  his  repast, 


THE    FAMILY    PORTFxAITS.  Ill 

for  the  number  of  greetings  that  he  had  to  bestow, 
mingled  with  occasional  commendations  of  his  own 
medical  acumen,  and  precise  knowledge  of  her  con 
stitution.  After  breakfast,  at  taking  his  cane  for  his 
morning  walk,  he  recommended  her  to  retire  to  her 
room,  and  compose  herself  after  this  first  exertion 
of  strength,  and  to  take  a  wine-glass  of  the  decoction 
of  valerian,  with  a  little  hartshorn  to  temper  the 
effect  of  the  sedative.  At  his  departure,  Beauchamp 
drew  her  into  the  recess  of  a  window,  under  pretence 
of  showing  her  a  new  volume  of  colored  prints.  He 
amused  himself  for  some  time  in  pointing  out  the 
elegant  execution  of  the  landscapes,  and  the  life  and 
prominence  which  characterized  the  figures.  While 
she  was  admiring  the  plumage  of  a  bird,  which  she 
did  not  perceive  was  the  Hibernian  thrush,  he  cover 
ed  with  her  hand,  all  the  letters  of  the  name  except 
Hibernia,  and  said  with  marked  expression, — "  As 
you  are  doubtless  better  acquainted  with  the  ornitho 
logy  of  that  island,  than  your  uncle,  can  you  tell  him 
whether  this  is  one  of  the  songsters  which  warble  in 
the  night?" 

Then  casting  at  her  an  oblique  glance  from  be 
neath  his  long  eye-lashes,  while  his  fine  eyes  seem 
ed  to  say,  that  her  soul  was  open  before  him,  he 
added, — 

"All  birds  understand  not  the  word  of  command 
from  a  fine  lady,  nor  is  the  same  one  equally  obe 
dient  at  all  times,  ma  belle  Marie." 

Compassionating  the  extreme  confusion  with  which 


112  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

she  was  covered,  he  drew  her  to  a  seat  by  his  side, 
and  attempted  to  turn  her  attention  to  other  designs 
of  the  artist.  But  complaining  of  an  head-ache, 
which  she  really  had,  she  disengaged  herself,  and 
hastened  to  her  chamber.  Rushing  by  Dubelde,  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  exclaiming — 

"  He  knows  it ! — he  knows  all ! — Beauchamp  has 
discovered  all ! — I  wish  that  I  were  hidden  in  the 
earth." 

"  Ma  foi !"  shrieked  the  chamber-maid,  "  and  if 
that  is  indeed  the  case,  you  have  no  time  to  lose. 
This  night  must  you  be  on  your  way,  or  Patten  is 
lost  for  ever." 

"  This  night !"  said  the  infatuated  girl,  "  seems  to 
be  the  only  time,  for  I  heard  Beauchamp  say  that 
he  was  to  go  to  Milton-hill,  on  a  party  of  plea 
sure,  and  not  return  until  to-morrow.  So  that  it 
would  not  be  in  his  power  to  discover  any  movement 
here,  and  probably  he  will  have  no  opportunity  to 
inform  my  father  before  he  goes.  Oh  !  I  would  suf 
fer  anything  rather  than  encounter  such  another 
harrowing,  humiliating  glance.  That  miserable 
serenade  has  been  the  cause  of  all  this." 

Madelaine  exclaiming  with  delight, — "  Now  you 
are  yourself  again, — your  mother's  child," — hasten 
ed  to  make  necessary  arrangements,  acknowledging 
that  she  had  already  held  three  assignations  with 
Patten  on  this  subject.  Mary  permitted  her  to  depart, 
continually  repeating  to  herself, — 

"  It  is  impossible  that  I  should  be  more  wretched 


THE    FAMILY     PORTRAITS.  113 

than  I  now  am,"  not  knowing  that  there  is  no  wretch 
edness  like  that  which  a  woman  suffers,  who  has 
given  her  affections  where  they  can  never  be  return 
ed, — trusted  her  earthly  all  to  one  frail  bark,  and 
found  the  wreck  total. 

Most  persons  will  condemn  our  heroine,  for  lis 
tening  to  the  opinions,  and  employing  the  interven 
tion  of  so  contemptible  a  woman  as  Dubelde.  Let  such 
critics  themselves  beware  of  the  first  step  in  a  wrong 
course  ;  for  who  can  tell  where  the  last  may  lead  ? 
Most  of  us,  when  disposed  to  candor,  can  recollect 
passages  in  our  own  history,  where  the  commenda 
tions  of  one  whose  judgment  we  might  habitually 
despise,  if  it  happens  to  fall  in  with  the  current  of 
our  partialities,  has  had  some  agency  in  determining 
a  doubtful  and  important  choice.  Dubelde  was  ab 
sent  at  intervals  during  most  of  the  day.  Toward 
its  close,  she  brought  a  letter  from  Patten,  expressive 
of  the  most  extravagant  gratitude. 

"  Every  arrangement  is  made,"  said  she.  "  All 
that  you  have  to  do,  is  precisely  when  the  clock 
strikes  twelve,  to  come  down,  looking  like  a  goddess 
as  you  do  now,  all  arrayed  for  a  ride  in  this  fine 
moonlight.  Your  lover  meets  you  at  the  door  of  the 
little  summer-parlor,  opening  into  the  garden,  leads 
you  through  that  into  the  next  avenue,  where  a  post- 
chaise  waits,  and  a  servant  on  horseback.  Then  you 
drive  to  Providence,  get  the  ceremony  performed, 
and  take  an  excursion  just  where  your  ladyship 
pleases,  until  you  are  ready  to  come  back  and  be 
K2 


114  THE     FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

pardoned.  Oh  !  how  interesting  you  '11  look  on  your 
knees,  with  the  old  gentleman  a  little  stern  at  first, 
because  he'll  feel  obliged  to  be  so,  though  he'll  be 
panting,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  to  cry  welcome. 
Lord !  how  much  better  is  this,  than  one  of  the  dull 
weddings  of  this  miserable  country  !  Why,  a  fune 
ral  is  nothing  to  them  for  sadness.  There  sit  the 
bride  and  bridegroom,  as  starched  and  stiff  as  buck 
ram,  and  a  parcel  of  friends  who  came  only  to  stare 
at  them,  and  eat  vile  cake,  and  drink  muddy  wine, 
till  they  are  all  as  dull  as  asses.  The  parson  too 
pipes  up  such  a  doleful  exhortation  about  honoring 
and  obeying,  and  then  the  old  women  snuffle  and 
cry,  because  they  know  what  it  means,  and  the  young 
ones  hide  their  faces  behind  their  fans,  because  they 
wish  to  know.  Then  they  all  creep  in  mournful  pro 
cession,  two  and  two,  to  congratulate  the  bride,  with 
such  woe-begone  faces,  that  she  dreams  of  them  in 
her  sleep,  and  screams  out  with  the  night-mare. 
Mon  Dieu !  I  could  not  survive,  through  such  a  stu 
pid  scene.  How  much  better  to  have  a  little  life, 
and  motion,  and  spirit,  and  joy  !  And  then  to  lay 
your  lover  under  such  an  obligation,  when,  in  one  of 
these  petrified  marriages,  ten  to  one  but  he  '11  think 
that  he  conferred  one  on  you.  But  I  'm  distracted 
to  run  on  so,  when  I  've  all  your  wardrobe  to  put  up 
for  your  journey.  Let  me  see  :  your  crimson  satin, 
and  your  blue  neglige,  you  '11  take  by  all  means,  and 
you  '11  need  the  pearl  lutestring  for  a  morning  dress, 
with  shoes,  and  ear-rings,  and  ruffles,  and  so  forth, 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  115 

to  match.  Will  you  take  your  best  brocade  ?  Lord  ! 
who  knows  but  you  '11  be  robbed  by  the  Indians. 
Here 's  the  beautiful  new  brown  tabby,  that  suits 
your  shape  so  exactly.  You  '11  ride  in  this,  I  trust, 
with  the  Brussels  lace  tucker" 

"  For  heaven's  sake,"  exclaimed  Mary,  "  say  no 
thing  about  clothes.  I  '11  go  in  the  plainest  dress  I 
have,  and  take  one  or  two  changes." 

"  Ma  foi !"  shrieked  Madelaine,  "  you  've  lost  your 
senses.  But  so  does  every  body,  who  's  in  love.  1 
shall  make  bold  to  use  my  own  judgment,  and  select 
such  things  as  are  decent  to  wear.  No  good  would 
come  from  looking  like  a  beggar,  and  disgracing  your 
lover  at  the  very  outset." 

"  Prevent  my  father  from  coming  to  my  room, 
this  evening,"  said  Mary.  "  I  cannot  endure  to  look 
at  him.  Surely,  surely,  I  am  on  a  wrong  course,  or 
it  would  not  be  so." 

"  Now  you  're  getting  into  the  dumps  again,"  re 
plied  Dubelde.  "  Here,  take  your  smelling-bottle,  I 
pray.  Better  do  a  thing  gracefully,  or  not  do  it  at  all. 
The  old  gentleman  is  safe  enough.  He 's  got  some 
of  the  Huguenot  bodies  to  une  petite  soupir  with  him, 
and  they  're  telling  old  world  stories  with  such  eclat, 
that  they  won't  know  what  world  they  're  in,  till  the 
dining-room  clock  strikes  nine.  Then  they  '11  be  off 
like  the  firing  of  a  pistol,  for  they 're  so  superstitious 
they  durst  not  be  out  in  the  night.  And  your  father 
is  always  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  to  bed,  and  Beau- 
champ  is  out :  what  better  could  you  possibly  desire  ? 


116  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

Come,  be  gay  :  you  '11  affright  Patten  with  that  pale, 
ghostly  visage." 

Thus  rattled  on  the  interminable*  waiting-maid, 
and  Mary,  whose  object  was  to  banish  thought,  felt 
even  her  impertinence  preferable  to  silence.  Pride, 
and  a  sense  of  decorum,  would  but  a  few  days  since 
have  strongly  revolted  against  submitting  to  the  gui 
dance  of  a  menial ;  now  the  haughty  spirit  was  pas 
sive  both  to  arrangements  and  to  opinions  which  it 
despised.  "  Bound  on  a  voyage  of  awful  length," 
the  unhappy  victim  prolonged  every  hindrance  that 
detained  her  on  shore.  The  last  hour  of  probation 
seemed  as  a  few  minutes,  yet  was  almost  insupport 
able.  She  wished  to  fly  from  herself,  to  plunge  in 
the  waters  of  Lethe, — to  obliterate  all  the  past, — to 
forget  even  her  own  name  and  existence.  There 
was  a  settled  misery  in  her  countenance,  which  might 
have  awakened  the  obdurate  to  pity. 

Thrice  Madelaine  repeated, "  The  clock  has  struck 
twelve,"  ere  she  heeded  it. 

"  You  mistake,"  she  replied,  "  it  is  scarcely  past 
eleven."  Fain  would  she  have  added, — "  Ah  !  I 
cannot  go," — but  shame  at  exposing  such  indecision 
to  a  servant,  sealed  her  lips.  At  length  she  in 
quired, — 

"  Does  my  father  steep  ?" 

"  Lord  bless  me,  my  sweet  Mademoiselle,  are  you 
deaf,  that  you  have  not  heard  him  snoring  these  three 
hours,  as  steady  as  the  fall  of  a  mill-dam,  and  loud 
as  the  screech  of  a  trumpet  ?" 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  117 

"  And  the  servants  ?" 

"  All  in  their  lofts,  like  swallows.  I  gave  them 
a  swig  of  double-distilled,  and  I  dare  say,  there  '11  be 
no  such  thing  as  getting  them  up  in  the  morning." 

"And  Beauchamp?" 

"  Ma  foi ! — Have  you  forgot  he  does  not  return  to 
night  ?  This  is  your  only  time.  Do  you  wish  to  wait 
for  his  arrival,  and  so  have  your  lover  shot  through 
the  heart,  and  be  pointed  at,  and  laughed  at,  all  your 
days  ?  Oh  !  I  know  you  're  not  one  of  the  sort,  to 
enlist  and  run  away,  at  the  first  skirmish.  Collect 
your  spirits,  my  princess.  You  are  beautiful  as  the 
moon,  when  she  peeps  from  some  silver  cloud.  You 
have  the  very  soul  of  the  Beauchamps.  You  are 
equal  to  what  the  poor  spiritless  creatures  of  this  coun 
try  would  be  frightened  to  think  of,  but  what  is  as 
common  in  France  as  a  jewel  in  the  head  of  a  Duch 
ess.  Remember  your  mother  did  it  before  you, 
when  she  was  just  about  your  age.  Think  of  the 
delight  and  rapture  of  your  lover.  Do  you  know 
it  is  believed  that  he  is  some  foreign  prince  in  dis 
guise  ?  and  no  more  a  Captain  than  I  am  ?  I  Ve  no 
doubt  of  it.  I  see  a  throne  in  his  eye.  Who  knows 
but  you  '11  yet  hold  the  sceptre  of  Great  Britain  in 
that  lily  hand." 

Unconscious  of  a  word  that  was  uttered,  Mary 
suffered  herself  to  be  led  down  the  staircase,  while 
Dubelde,  amid  all  her  fidgeting,  and  pride  of  direc 
tion,  and  fears  lest  they  should  not  tread  lightly, 
could  not  avoid  exclaiming  with  her  native  volatility, 


118  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

"Lord!  I'm  dead  with  the  nose-itch."  As  they 
reached  the  landing-place,  they  heard  a  gentle  tap 
at  the  glass  door  which  led  into  the  garden.  It  was 
the  black  servant,  come  to  see  if  all  was  ready,  and 
to  convey  the  package  to  the  carriage,  which  waited 
at  the  avenue  passing  the  foot  of  the  garden.  He 
was  admitted,  and  Madelaine  ran  hastily  to  the  cham 
ber  of  her  mistress,  for  the  clothes  which  had  been 
prepared.  At  her  return,  she  saw  him  setting  down 
a  champaign  glass,  which,  having  stood  near  a  bot 
tle  upon  a  table  in  the  recess,  he  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  filling,  and  decanting  through  his  lips. 
The  moment  she  observed  him,  forgetting  her  own 
reiterated  injunctions  of  breathless  silence,  she 
shrieked — 

"  Mon  Dieu !  The  black  whale  has  swallowed  all 
my  rings  ! — the  ruby, — the  beautiful  emerald,— and 
the  turquoise  that  was  given  by, — Oh,  Lord  ! — and 
the  superb  hair-locket  too!  Did'nt  that  stick  in 
your  throat,  you  insatiable  hawk  ?" 

The  bereaved  waiting-woman  had  thrown  her 
jewelry,  en  passant,  into  this  casual  place  of  depo 
sit,  that  her  hands  might  be  more  at  liberty  in  pack 
ing  for  her  mistress  ;  for,  since  the  access  of  years 
had  rendered  them  somewhat  more  lean  and  skinny, 
the  ornaments  of  her  buxom  youth  were  in  contin 
ual  danger  of  escaping  from  her  attenuated  fingers, 
when  summoned  to  any  active  duty.  Her  distress 
at  the  rifling  of  her  most  beloved  treasures,  quite 
annihilated  the  unities  of  time  and  place,  and  her 


THE    FAMILY  PORTRAITS.  119 

first  shriek  was  passionately  loud.  But  she  had 
scarce  a  moment  to  compute  the  probabilities  of  the 
extent  of  its  echo,  ere  the  door  from  the  dining-room 
burst  open,  and  Dr.  Ranchon  appeared  in  his  night 
dress,  advancing  a  long,  rusty  rapier.  Suddenly 
awakened,  and  anticipating  no  enemy  but  thieves, 
he  armed  himself  with  great  dispatch,  and  stood 
forth,  a  formidable  antagonist,  with  great  personal 
strength,  and  equal  courage.  Great  was  his  aston 
ishment  to  find  his  daughter  arrayed  as  for  an  ex 
pedition,  and  fainting  in  the  arms  of  Madelaine.  The 
negro,  profiting  by  the  moment  of  consternation, 
dropped  the  package  and  vanished. 

"  What !  in  God's  name,  is  the  meaning  of  all 
this?" — exclaimed  the  hoarse,  harsh  voice  of  the  old 
gentleman,  raised  to  its  upper  tones. 

"  Oh  !  take  her  in  your  arms, — support  her,  my 
dear  master,  till  I  run  for  some  hartshorn,  or  she  '11 
die,"  screamed  the  waiting-maid,  anxious  to  turn  his 
attention  to  an  object  that  would  disarm  his  rage, 
and  still  more  anxious  to  convey  her  own  person  out 
of  reach  of  the  rapier.  She  soon  saw  him  engaged 
in  loosing  the  ligatures  of  his  daughter's  dress,  and 
too  much  occupied  with  her  situation,  to  inquire  the 
cause.  Carefully  measuring  her  distance,  so  as  to 
be  out  of  the  range  of  the  weapon,  she  commenced 
a  plea  of  defence,  forgetful  of  the  impatience  which, 
a  moment  before,  she  had  testified,  to  obtain  some 
remedy  for  her  fainting  lady, — 

"  Oh !  that  I  had  never  seen  this  night,"  she  cried 


120  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

sobbing.  Thousands  of  times  have  I  tried  to  dis 
suade  her  from  leaving  her  poor,  dear  father.  Hours 
without  number,  have  I  set  before  her  the  deadly 
sin  of  an  elopement." 

"Who  told  you  'twas  such  a  deadly  sin,  you 
meddling  Jezebel  ?"  vociferated  the  father. 

Dubelde  perceiving  that  in  her  haste  she  had  touch 
ed  a  key  to  which  her  master's  feelings  always  an 
grily  vibrated,  cried  in  a  whining  tone, — 

"  Oh  no,  my  dear  Sir  ! — not  to  elope  with  a  pro 
per  person,  Sir,  such  as  an  honorable  gentleman 
from  France ;  that  would  have  been  a  glory  to  her, 
as  it  was  to  her  mother.  But  to  run  away  with  an 
Irishman  that  nobody  knows,  that  was  the  trouble. 
She  was  set  enough  in  her  way,  God  knows.  She 
takes  it  from  the  Beauchamps.  She  was  angry 
enough  to  have  struck  me,  for  saying  so  much  in 
your  favor,  Sir." 

"  So,  you  knew  that  my  daughter  was  about  mar 
rying  an  Irish  devil,  and  never  told  me  of  it,  you 
infernal  deceiver  !  Get  out  of  my  house  !" — rising 
with  his  unconscious  burden,  as  if  to  force  her  from 
the  door.  But  reminded  of  Mary's  situation,  by  the 
lifeless  weight  with  which  she  hung  upon  his  arm, 
he  changed  his  purpose,  and  exclaimed, — 

"  Run ! — fetch  the  hartshorn." 

"  Mademoiselle  has  some  drops  in  her  dressing- 
case,  your  honor,  which  always  do  better  for  her 
than  hartshorn.  I  '11  bring  them  in  one  moment." 

She  disappeared  on  the  staircase,  muttering  to 
herself, — 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  121 

"  I  shan't  break  my  neck'  with  haste  to  accommo 
date  him.  Get  out  of  his  house ! — Indeed ! — A  vile 
wolf!  This  is  what  people  of  my  talents  get,  by 
demeaning  themselves  to  such  vipers !" 

She  lingered  as  long  as  was  convenient  to  herself, 
but  came  down  stairs  with  rapidity,  saying — 

"  I  thought  I  should  never  have  found  the  phial. 
Things  are  hid  in  such  strange  places  now-a-days." 

But  ere  she  arrived,  she  heard  the  old  gentleman 
speaking  in  a  hurried  but  gentle  tone  to  Mary,  who 
was  slowly  recovering  from  the  air  of  the  open 
door. 

"There !  there !  look  up  again !  breathe  better  now, 
baby  ? — don't  swoon  again,  as  soon  as  you  see  me. 
A'nt  angry — No,  no — shall  marry  who  you  please 
— did'nt  mean  you  should  marry  a  Frenchman 
against  your  will. — No,  no. — May  have  whoever 
you  wish,  only  let  father  know  it. — That 's  all. — A'nt 
angry  the  least  in  the  world, — do  speak  one  word, 
baby  Mary." 

This  colloquy,  or  rather  soliloquy,  was  terminated 
by  Beauchamp,  who  rushed  in  at  the  garden-door, 
and  as  Mary  feebly  retired  with  Dubelde,  still  in  a 
state  of  doubtful  consciousness,  he  exclaimed — 

"  Clumsily  executed,  by  the  gods  !  This  same 
elopement  is  a  true  Irishman's  bull.  A  carriage  in 
full  view,  beneath  a  full  moon,  scarcely  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  house, — a  tattling  chamber-maid  for 
confidante  and  mistress  of  ceremonies,  and  a  devil 
ish  negro  dispatched  to  receive  the  dulcinea.  This 
L 


122  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

bog-trotter  is  either  a  fool,  or  desirous  of  being  dis 
covered." 

"  How  did  you  know  anything  of  this  affair,  bro 
ther  ?"  inquired  the  old  gentleman. 

"  How  do  we  know  that  our  visage  is  furnished 
with  a  nose,  instead  of  horns?"  he  replied.  "Simply 
by  the  use  of  the  eyes.  I  am  amazed  that  any  one 
could  be  in  the  house  with  that  girl,  and  not  perceive 
her  change  of  manner, — her  suppressed  sigh,  swal 
lowed  in  a  smile,  like  the  whale  gorging  the  prophet, 
and  compelled  to  cast  him  forth  again,  her  efforts  to 
appear  unconstrained,  and  her  inability  to  be  so. 
None  but  a  doating  father  could  be  blind  to  all  this 
parapharnalia  ;  and  none  seeing  it,  and  having  been 
once  in  Cupid's  court,  could  doubt  the  author.  My 
eyes  having  opened  the  cause,  my  ears  soon  purvey 
ed  sufficient  testimony.  What  is  committed  as  a 
secret  to  school-girls  is  better  published  than  if  the 
town-crier  were  employed.  I  have  long  had  my  eye 
upon  this  jewel  of  a  man,  who  imagined  that  he  was 
walking  in  darkness,  and  wasting  at  noon-day.  Not 
many  days  since,  did  I  see  this  same  Captain  Patten 
presenting  a  letter  in  the  streets  to  the  most  discreet 
and  excellent  Mademoiselle  Dubelde." 

"  Captain  Patten  !  is  that  his  name  ? — why  did  not 
you  inform  me  of  all  this,  Beauchamp  ?" 

"  Frankly,  because  it  would  have  done  no  good. 
You  would  only  have  fallen  into  a  passion,  and  by 
forbidding  Mary  to  see  her  lover,  have  blown  up  a 
girlish  fancy  into  an  unconquerable  flame.  Were  I 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  123 

desirous  of  precipitating  a  marriage,  1  would  hire 
either  the  parents  or  some  old  maiden  aunt  to  op 
pose  it.  The  passions  excited  by  such  a  collision, 
are  Hymen's  engines.  The  young  lady  views  her 
lover  as  a  martyr,  mistakes  her  own  obstinacy  for 
love, — marries,  and  is  undeceived.  No,  no,  my 
dear  sir. — I  have  too  much  attachment  for  the  sole 
offspring  of  my  favorite  sister,  to  hazard  such  a  re 
sult.  I  preferred  coming  in  with  my  countercheck 
at  the  crisis,  as  the  best  method  of  discomfiting  this 
rascally  Irishman,  and  of  giving  Marie,  through  the 
mortification  that  must  ensue,  such  a  lesson  upon 
the  misery  of  imprudence  and  duplicity,  as  will  pro 
bably  save  you  from  their  recurrence." 

"  But  how  did  you  discover  the  proceedings  of  to 
night?"  inquired  Dr.  Ranchon.  "I  thought  you 
were  out  of  town." 

"  A  mere  bagatelle.  I  have  not  lost  sight  of  your 
mansion  to-day.  I  was  nearer  to  your  daughter  than 
you,  when  the  shriek  of  that  abominable  Madelaine 
broke  your  trance.  It  was  my  intention  to  have  re 
ceived  the  loving  pair,  when  they  should  issue  from 
the  woodbine  porch,  in  whose  purlieus  I  was  very 
fragrantly  accommodated.  Finding  that  an  underplot 
was  accidentally  got  up  in  the  house,  I  varied  the 
last  act  of  the  drama,  and  drawing  my  sword,  pro 
ceeded  to  seek  an  interview  with  Honey,  ere  his  ebon 
emissary  should  return  to  report  the  misadventure. 
He  was  quite  comfortably  watching  his  horses,  muf 
fled  in  a  cloak,  and  did  not  perceive  me,  until  I  was 


124  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

within  five  paces,  and  called,  'Draw,  rascal !'  Having 
some  secret  impression  of  his  cowardice,  I  had  so 
placed  myself  with  regard  to  the  gate  opening  on  the 
avenue,  that  his  retreat  should  not  be  that  way. 
Father  Jupiter !  I  had  not  anticipated  that  he  was 
so  complete  a  dastard.  I  did  look  for  two  or  three 
passes  at  least.  Yet  nothing  saw  I,  but  a  pair  of 
heels  kicked  up  in  flight.  As  he  was  about  to  leap 
the  wall,  I  overtook,  and  closed  with  him.  But  un 
fortunately  entangling  myself  in  the  cloak  which  he 
threw  off,  I  lost  my  sword,  and  we  should  have  had 
nothing  but  a  wrestling  match,  in  which  my  jewel, 
being  the  most  powerful  man,  would  probably  have 
had  the  advantage.  This  also  he  avoided,  for  giving 
a  leap  over  the  high  wall,  he  threw  himself  '  sheer 
out  of  Eden.'  Having  regained  my  sword,  I  fol 
lowed,  taking  care  to  secure  a  pocket-book,  which 
in  the  scuffle  had  fallen  from  him.  But  finding  it 
was  hopeless  to  pursue  the  bog-trotter,  though  I  am 
somewhat  fleet  at  a  race,  I  turned,  and  met  his  negro 
servant  driving  off  the  chaise.  I  menaced  the  horses 
with  my  sword,  and  ordered  him  to  drive  to  the  devil. 
The  rest  you  know,  and  now  I  have  considerable 
curiosity  to  see  the  contents  of  this  fortune-hunter's 
port-feuille." 

He  produced  a  rather  spacious  red  leather  pocket- 
book,  in  which  were  various  receipts,  papers,  and 
letters  of  little  consequence.  At  length  Beauchamp 
discovered  one  in  a  female  hand,  considerably  mu 
tilated,  though  one  page  continued  legible,  and  bore 
a  recent  date. 


THE    FAMILY     PORTRAITS.  125 

"Cork  March,  17th,  1724. 

"  Surprised  will  ye  be,  my  loving  husband,  to 
receive  a  letter  from  me  in  Cork  ;  but  the  last  long 
winter  was  so  tediously  cold,  and  our  cabin  by  the 
pool  of  Ballyclacklin  so  shackling  and  bad,  that  my 
brother  was  fain  for  me  to  be  removing  to  Cork, 
where  he  kindly  gives  me  the  use  of  one  half  of  his 
own  house.  I  don't  wish  to  be  complaining  too 
much  of  hard  times,  but  would  be  right  glad  to  see 
your  sweet  face  again,  or  to  receive  any  little  mat 
ter  you  could  send  me,  to  help  on  with  the  children. 
Dick  has  got  to  be  a  stout  boy,  and  looks  with  his 
eyes  as  you  do,  and  little  Biddy  has  learned  from 
him  to  say,  «  Arrah  !  when  will  that  daddy  of  ours 
be  for  coming  bock  agen  ?' — I  had  'nt  heard  where 
you  was  for  a  year,  or  thereabouts,  till  last  week, 
Mr.  Patrick  Thady  O'Mulligan,  of  this  place,  re 
turned  from  Boston,  in  America,  bringing  news  that 
you  was  there.  He  says,  he  was  a  little  bother'd 
at  first,  and  came  nigh  not  knowing  you,  because 
you  had  taken  a  new  name ;  something  like  Paten, 
or  Patin,  and  wore  a  marvellous  rich  dress  of  a  reg 
iment  officer.  He  says  too,  that  at  first  you  declared 
it  was  not  you,  but  he  swore  that  he  'd  know  your 
father's  son  all  the  world  over, — and  then  you  told 
him  that  it  was  you.  Right  glad  was  your  loving 
wife  to  hear  that  you  was  not  drowned  in  the  salt 
sea,  and" — 

Here  the  epistle  was  torn   across. — Beauchamp 
had  scarcely  patience  to  complete  its  perusal. 
L2 


126  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

"  Oh  !"  he  exclaimed,  brandishing  his  sword, "  that 
the  Powers  above  had  suffered  but  three  inches  of 
this  blade  to  sound  that  wretch's  heart !" 

Dr.  Ranchon  traversed  the  room,  raving  in  an 
excess  of  passion.  He  clenched  his  hands,  and  ere 
the  reading  was  concluded,  had  vociferated  more  evil 
wishes  and  epithets,  than  it  would  be  either  conve 
nient  or  fitting  to  repeat.  Snatching  the  mutilated 
letter,  he  exclaimed — 

"  Let  her  see  it !  Let  her  see  it !  Show  her  what 
an  infernal  gulf  she  sported  near." 

Then  clasping  Beauchamp  in  his  arms,  with  a 
violence  that  almost  suffocated  him,  he  said,  half  in 
tears,  "  and  you,  you  have  saved  us  !"  Beauchamp 
placing  his  hand  upon'his  brother's  arm,  as  soon  as 
he  could  extricate  himself  from  his  powerful  embrace 
said, — "  Stay !  Enough  has  been  done  for  safety. 
There  is  yet  sufficient  time  for  suffering. — She  can- 
not  bear  all  at  once. — I  should  not  be  surprised, 
were  you  to  have  occasion  for  all  your  professional 
skill  in  her  chamber,  this  fortnight.  This  revulsion 
of  feeling,  call  it  what  you  will,  vanity,  lunacy,  or 
love,  cannot  be  without  physical  sympathy.  This 
*  last,  unkindest  cut  of  all,'  must  be  softened  to  her, 
as  she  can  endure  it.  In  the  meantime  send  out  of 
your  house  that  walking  pestilence,  in  the  shape  of 
a  chamber-maid.  A  ship  this  week  sails  for  France. 
— Furnish  part  of  its  freight  with  her  carcase,  and 
give  thanks  as  the  Jews  did,  when  they  were  clear 
of  the  leprosy. — If  it  sinks,  so  much  the  better. — 


THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS.  127 

Give  her  money  enough  to  become  a  petty  shop 
keeper  in  the  Rue  St.  Denis, — the  height  of  her  am 
bition,  where  she  will  soon  complete  the  climax  of 
her  folly." 

Dubelde  was  accordingly  dismissed,  the  fortune- 
hunter  vanished,  and  the  prophecy  of  Beauchamp, 
respecting  Mary,  was  but  too  literally  fulfilled. — 
Long  and  severe  sickness,  with  partial  delirium, 
were  the  consequences  of  her  folly ;  and  though  her 
firmness  of  constitution  eventually  prevailed,  yet 
she  came  forth  with  wasted  bloom,  scarcely  the 
shadow  of  her  former  self.  This  protracted  period 
of  reflection  and  remorse  was  salutary. — The  fabrics 
of  vanity  wherein  she  had  trusted,  fell  around  her, 
and  her  principles  of  action  became  reversed. — With 
subdued  pride  and  renovated  feelings,  she  strove  to 
atone  for  her  faithlessness  to  her  father,  and  her  for- 
getfulness  of  her  God. 

In  due  time,  she  admitted  the  addresses  of  a  de 
scendant  of  the  Huguenots,  one  in  character  and  ac 
complishments  altogether  worthy  of  her  affections. 
His  elevated  mind,  and  susceptible  heart,  induced 
her  to  cherish  for  him  that  mixture  of  gratitude, 
esteem  and  confidence,  which  if  it  pretend  not  to  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  first  love,  is  something  in  itself  far 
better. 

It  is  that  state  of  feeling  into  which  requited  and 
virtuous  love  eventually  subsides ;  that  pure  and 
self-devoted  friendship  which  the  author  of  the  Spec 
tator  has  pronounced  the  "perfection  of  love." 


128  THE    FAMILY    PORTRAITS. 

Each  revolving  year  continued  to  convince  Mary  of 
what  wayward  and  romantic  youth  are  often  scepti 
cal  in  believing,  that  the  illusion  of  a  first  love,  in 
all  its  charm  and  enthusiasm,  is  but  misery,  if  un- 
sanctioned  by  duty,  in  comparison  with  that  union 
of  hearts,  which  judgment  approves,  which  piety 
confirms,  and  whose  crown  is  the  smile  and  blessing 
of  a  parent. 

Perchance  some  of  my  readers,  if  haply  any  have 
attended  my  lucubrations  thus  far,  may  marvel  why 
I  have  seen  fit  to  entitle  them  family  portraits.  The 
truth  is,  that  two  antiquated  personages  have  for 
several  years  been  looking  down  upon  me  from  their 
ample  frames,  whenever  I  pass  a  particular  part  of 
our  mansion.  One  is  a  lady  dressed  in  a  brown  silk, 
with  raven  hair  parted  plainly  upon  her  forehead,  and 
holding  in  her  hand  a  snuff-box,  with  an  aspect  rather 
grave  than  beautiful.  The  partner  is  a  most  portly 
and  respectable  gentleman,  with  wig  and  ruffles, 
pointing  with  a  spy-glass  to  the  distant  Ocean,  as  if 
in  expectation  of  the  arrival  of  some  richly-laden 
vessel.  Both  portraits  are  in  far  better  taste  than  is 
usual  for  those  that  bear  the  date  of  more  than  a 
century :  the  hands  in  particular,  which  are  allowed 
to  be  some  criterion  of  an  artist's  style,  are  elegant 
ly  finished. 

Having  been  divers  times  puzzled  with  inquiries 
from  visitants,  respecting  these  venerable  personages, 
I  set  myself  seriously  to  search  our  family  records, 
and  you  have  seen  the  result,  in  the  foregoing  sheets. 


THE    FAMILY   PORTRAITS.  129 

I  found  that  the  grave  lady  who  looks  as  if  she  might 
have  read  daily  lectures  against  coquetry  and  elope 
ment  to  her  children,  was  no  other  than  the  once 
celebrated  Mary  Ranchon,  and  that  the  gentleman 
in  such  undivided  proximity  was  that  Huguenot 
husband,  who  so  greatly  enhanced  her  happiness  by 
his  love,  and  her  respectability  by  his  wisdom.  Should 
any  person  continue  sceptical  as  to  the  truth  of  the 
facts  herein  related,  he  may  see,  should  he  travel  in 
the  land  of  steady  habits,  those  same  family  portraits, 
gratis,  and  be  told  the  name  of  the  husband  of  Mary 
Ranchon. " 


Hartford,  October,  1827. 


ORIANA. 


'  Where  was  she  ? — 'Mid  the  people  of  the  wild, — 

By  the  red  hunter's  fire. — An  aged  Chief, 
Whose  home  look'd  sad, — for  therein  dwelt  no  child, 

Had  borne  her  in  the  stillness  of  her  grief 
To  his  lone  cabin :  and  that  gentle  guide 
By  faith  and  sorrow  rais'd  and  purified, — 
To  the  blest  Cross  her  Indian  fosterers  led, 

Until  their  prayers  were  one." 

MRS.  HEMANS. 


AMONG  the  customs  which  distinguished  the  na 
tives  of  our  country,  ere  the  originality  of  their  char 
acter  became  prostrated,  and  its  energies  broken, 
few  were  more  unique  and  interesting,  than  the  cere 
mony  of  adoption.  This  was  the  selection  of  an 
individual  to  fill  the  place  of  some  near  relative  re 
moved  by  death.  It  was  more  generally  the  resort 
of  families  bereaved  of  a  son,  and  the  choice  was 
often  from  among  prisoners  taken  in  battle.  It  has 
been  known  to  snatch  the  victim  from  the  stake,  and 
to  encircle  him  with  all  the  domestic  charities.  The 
transferred  affection  of  parents  was  often,  in  such 
cases,  most  ardent  and  enduring.  Especially  if  any 
resemblance  existed  between  the  buried  and  the 
adopted  object,  mothers  were  prone  to  cherish  an 
idolatry  of  tenderness.  Instances  have  been  record 
ed  in  which  the  most  ancient  national  animosit'r 


132  ORIANA. 

or  deep-rooted  personal  hatred,  have  yielded  to  this 
rite  of  adoption.  It  has  even  been  extended  to  the 
offspring  of  the  whites,  during  periods  of  deadly  war 
fare.  When  we  consider  the  implacable  temper  of 
our  aborigines,  and  that  it  was  an  article  of  their 
creed,  never  to  suffer  an  injury  to  pass  unavenged, 
this  custom  of  naturalizing  a  foe  in  their  homes,  and 
in  their  hearts,  strikes  us  as  prominent,  peculiar,  and 
worthy  to  be  held  in  remembrance. 

The  tribe  of  Mohegans  were  formerly  owners  of 
an  ample  territory  in  New-England,  and  were  uni 
formly  friendly  to  our  ancestors.  Their  kings  and 
chieftains  became  allies  of  the  colonies  in  their  in 
fancy,  and  the  bravery  of  their  warriors  aided  in 
their  struggles  with  the  surrounding  tribes.  Their 
descendants  have  now  become  few  in  number,  and 
abject  in  mind.  A  circumscribed  and  inalienable 
territory,  in  the  south-eastern  part  of  Connecticut, 
furnishes  subsistence  to  the  remnant  which  has  not 
emigrated,  or  become  incorporated  with  other  na 
tions.  Emphatically,  their  glory  is  departed,  and  of 
their  primeval  energy  and  nobleness,  no  vestige  sur 
vives.  Yet  slight  kindlings  of  national  pride  con 
tinued  at  intervals  to  gleam  faintly  forth  from  be 
neath  incumbent  ruins,  as  embers,  apparently  long 
quenched,  will  sometimes  smoulder  and  sparkle  amid 
the  ashes  that  cover  them.  One  of  the  latest  evi 
dences  of  this  spirit,  was  the  watchful  affection  with 
which  they  regarded  their  royal  burying-place.  No 

1  ^ar  dust  was  ever  suffered  to  repose  in  the  sepul- 


ORIANA.  133 

chre  of  their  kings.  No  Cambrian  point  of  genea 
logy  was  ever  more  vigilantly  traced,  no  restriction 
of  the  Salick  Law  more  tenaciously  guarded,  than 
was  the  farthest  and  slightest  infusion  of  the  blood 
of  Mohegan  monarchy.  Long  after  the  royal  line 
became  extinct,  and  they  were  decreed,  like  ancient 
Israel,  to  dwell "  without  an  ephod  and  without  a  ter- 
aphim,"  they  guarded  with  fierce  and  unslumbering 
jealousy  their  consecrated  cemetery  from  profana 
tion. 

Its  monuments  are  still  visible  within  the  limits  of 
the  city  of  Norwich,  and  sometimes  strangers  visit  with 
pitying  interest,  the  lowly  tombs  of  the  monarchs 
of  the  soil.  The  inhabitants  of  that  beautiful  city, 
in  whose  vicinity  the  village  of  Mohegan  is  situated, 
have  ever  extended  their  sympathies  to  their  "  poor 
brethren  within  their  gates."  Still  their  Christian 
benevolence  strives  to  gather  under  its  wings,  the 
perishing  remnant  of  a  once  powerful  race.  Teach 
ers  are  among  them,  of  those  sciences  which  render 
this  life  comfortable,  and  throw  the  light  of  hope  on 
the  next.  Their  little  children  are  taken  by  the  hand, 
and  led  to  Jesus.  The  white  spire  of  a  simple 
church,  recently  erected  for  their  benefit,  points  to 
that  world  where  no  heritage  is  alienated. 

The  period  selected  for  this  sketch,  is  soon  after 
the  close  of  our  War  of  Revolution.  There  then 
existed  in  the  little  settlement  of  Mohegan,  some  in 
dividuals  worthy  of  being  rescued  from  oblivion. 
Among  them  was  the  Reverend  Samson  Occum,  the 
M 


134  ORIANA. 

first  native  minister  of  that  tribe,  whose  unostenta 
tious  fortunes  are  interwoven  with  the  ecclesiastical 
history  of  that  day.  The  benevolence  of  the  Rev 
erend  President  Wheelock  of  Dartmouth  College, 
drew  him  from  the  vagrant  habits  of  the  Indian 
hunter,  and  touched  his  mind  with  the  love  of  letters 
and  of  piety.  Ten  years  before  our  Declaration  of 
Independence,  he  made  a  voyage  to  England,  and 
was  received  with  the  most  kind  and  gratifying  at 
tention.  Among  the  treasured  memorials  of  this 
visit,  were  correspondences  with  some  of  the  wise 
and  philanthropic  of  the  mother-country,  which  he 
faithfully  maintained,  and  the  gift  of  a  library  of  con 
siderable  value,  which  after  his  decease  was  pur 
chased  by  a  clergyman  in  the  vicinity.  His  discourses 
in  his  native  tongue  often  produced  a  strong  impres 
sion  on  his  hearers,  and  those  in  the  English  lan 
guage  displayed  an  acquaintance  with  its  idiom,  and 
a  facility  of  rendering  it  a  vehicle  for  strong  and 
original  thought,  highly  creditable  both  to  his  talents 
and  their  application.  He  possessed  a  decided  taste  for 
poetry,  especially  that  of  a  devotional  cast ;  and  a 
volume  of  this  nature,  which  he  selected  and  pub 
lished,  evinces  that  he  fervently  appreciated  the  pa 
thetic  and  the  powerful.  His  deportment  was  grave 
and  consistent,  as  became  a  teacher  of  divine  things, 
and  his  overflowing  eyes,  when  he  strove  to  allure 
his  people  to  the  love  of  a  Saviour,  testified  his  own 
warm  religious  sensibilities,  and  revealed  the  found 
ation  of  his  happiness  and  hope. 


ORIANA.  135 

The  native,  untaught  eloquence  of  the  tribe,  had 
also  a  representative.  Robert  Ashbow  was  collater 
ally  of  the  royal  line,  and  held  in  high  reverence  by 
his  people.  His  commanding  stature  and  lofty  brow 
marked  him  as  one  of  Nature's  nobility.  He  was 
respected  by  our  ancestors,  and  when  their  govern 
ment  became  permanent,  was  permitted  to  represent 
his  people  in  their  national  council.  Among  their 
senators,  his  words  were  few.  But  in  his  well- 
weighed  opinions,  in  his  wary  policy,  they  were  ac 
customed  to  liken  him  to  the  wise  and  wily  Ulysses. 
They  understood  him  not.  His  eloquence  was  like 
a  smothered  flame,  in  their  presence.  It  spoke  not 
even  through  the  eye,  which  was  ever  downcast, 
nor  lighted  the  brow  that  bore  a  rooted  sorrow. 
It  burst  forth  only  in  his  native  wilds,  and  among 
his  own  people.  There,  like  a  torrent,  it  swept  all 
before  it.  It  swayed  their  spirits,  as  the  tempest 
bends  the  lithe  willow. 

Though  he  keenly  felt  the  broken  and  buried  ma 
jesty  of  his  nation,  he  cherished  no  vindictiveness 
towards  those  who  had  caused  it.  He  had  a  deep 
reverence  for  knowledge  and  its  possessors,  which 
neutralized  this  bitterness.  Like  the  tamed  lion,  he 
yielded  to  a  force  which  he  did  not  comprehend. 
Though  by  nature  reserved  and  dominant,  he  almost 
crouchingly  sought  the  society  of  educated  white 
men,  for  among  them  alone  could  his  thirst  of  know 
ledge  be  satiated.  He  was  an  affecting  instance  of 
savage  pride,  humbling  itself  before  the  might  of  cul- 


136  ORIANA. 

tivated  intellect.  At  times,  his  melancholy  mood 
predominated,  and  for  days  and  nights  he  withdrew 
to  pathless  forests,  holding  communication  with  none. 
He  might  occasionally  be  discovered,  amid  the  crags 
of  some  scarcely  accessible  rock,  with  his  head  bow 
ed  low  in  frowning  and  solitary  contemplation,  like 
Marius  amid  the  ruins  of  Carthage.  There  was 
about  him,  the  waywardness  of  genius,  preying  upon 
itself,  and  the  pride  of  a  wounded  spirit,  which  would 
have  grasped  the  hoof  that  trampled  on  it,  and  hurl 
ed  the  rider  to  the  dust.  Yet  there  was  an  innate 
check  in  his  own  native  nobleness,  in  his  power  of 
appreciating  superior  mental  excellence.  Knowledge 
had  stood  before  him,  in  her  majesty  and  mystery, 
and  the  haughty  orator  of  the  forest  was  subdued 
like  an  awe-struck  child. 

Arrowhamet,  the  warrior,  or  Zachary,  as  he  was 
generally  called,  by  the  name  of  his  baptism,  was 
an  interesting  specimen  of  aboriginal  character. 
Stately,  unbending,  and  of  athletic  strength,  he 
seemed  to  defy  the  ravages  of  time,  though  the  re 
cord  of  his  memory  proved  that  he  had  passed  the 
prescribed  limit  of  threescore  years  and  ten.  He  had 
been  a  soldier  in  the  severe  campaign  that  preceded 
the  defeat  of  Braddock  in  1755,  and  had  borne  the 
hardships  and  perils  of  the  eight  years'  war  of  our 
revolution,  with  an  unshrinking  valor.  With  the 
taciturnity  of  his  nation,  he  seldom  spoke  of  the 
exploits  in  which  he  had  been  engaged.  Yet  when 
sometimes  induced  by  urgency,  to  give  a  narrative 


ORIANA.  137 

of  the  battles  where  he  had  fought,  his  flashing  eye, 
and  form  rising  still  more  loftily,  attested  his  warlike 
enthusiasm. 

His  wife,  Martha,  who  had,  with  him,  embraced 
the  Christian  religion,  possessed  that  gentleness  of 
deportment,  and  sweetness  of  voice,  by  which  the 
females  among  our  aborigines  were  often  distinguish 
ed.  His  attachment  to  her  was  evinced  by  more 
of  courteousness  than  comported  with  their  national 
coldness  of  manner,  and  was  reciprocated  by  a  ten 
der  and  unvarying  observance,  which  might  have 
adorned  a  more  refined  state  of  society.  Their  lit 
tle  abode  had  an  aspect  of  neatness  and  comfort, 
beyond  what  was  often  attained  by  the  supine  habits 
of  their  contemporaries.  It  was  environed  by  a 
tolerably  well-cultivated  garden,  and  sheltered  by  a 
rude  tenement ;  in  its  rear,  a  cow  quietly  ruminated. 
Other  indications  of  care  and  judicious  arrangement 
might  have  marked  it  out  as  the  dwelling  of  a  white 
man,  rather  than  an  Indian.  A  mysterious  person 
age  had  been  added  to  the  family,  which,  within  the 
memory  of  the  young,  had  comprised  only  Zachary 
and  Martha.  Since  this  accession,  many  improve 
ments  in  their  humble  establishment  had  been  visible. 
Fragrant  shrubs  were  taught  to  flourish,  and  flower 
ing  vines  trained  against  the  window.  Bee-hives, 
clustering  near,  sent  forth  the  cheerful  hum  of  wing 
ed  industry.  Beds  of  aromatic  herbs  were  reared 
for  the  accommodation  of  their  busy  inmates,  and 
they  might  be  seen  settling  upon  them,  with  intense 
M2 


138  ORIANA. 

delight,  and  pursuing  their  exquisite  chemistry,  be 
neath  the  earliest  smile  of  morning.  The  baskets, 
in  whose  construction  Martha  had  been  long  accus 
tomed  to  employ  her  leisure,  now  displayed  on  their 
smooth  compartments  the  touches  of  a  more  delicate 
pencil  than  the  natives  could  boast,  or  perhaps  ap 
preciate. 

The  neighboring  Indians  had  remarked,  that  this 
guest  of  their  friends  was  a  female,  and  some  of 
them  had  testified  surprise,  and  even  disgust,  that 
she  was  of  the  race  of  the  whites.  It  was  also  ob 
served  that  she  seemed  to  be  in  ill-health,  and  sel 
dom  quitted  the  dwelling ;  but  as  she  spoke  mildly  to 
all  its  visitants,  and  treated  their  children  with  kind 
ness,  they  became  conciliated  and  friendly.  Any 
inquiry  respecting  her,  received  only  the  laconic  an 
swer, — "  She  is  our  daughter."  It  was  at  once 
perceived  that  their  friends  wished  to  make  no  dis 
closures.  Their  right  to  preserve  secrecy  was  con 
ceded,  and  never  more  encroached  upon. 

The  Indian  yields  such  a  point,  with  far  more 
grace  than  his  Yankee  neighbors.  They,  indeed, 
admit,  that  a  man's  house  is  his  castle,  but  deny  his 
right  of  excluding,  by  bolt  or  bar,  their  exploring, 
unslumbering  curiosity.  The  privilege  of  prying 
into,  questioning,  and  canvassing  the  concerns  of 
every  household,  and  trying  all  men,  and  their  mo 
tives,  without  a  jury  of  peers,  is  their  Magna  Charta. 
For  this,  they  are  ready  to  contend  as  manfully 
as  the  barons  before  whom  king  John  cowered  at 


ORIANA.  139 

Runimede.  To  the  exercise  of  such  a  prerogative, 
competent  knowledge  of  the  doings  of  every  domi 
cile  is  requisite,  and  the  power  of  making  every  body's 
business  their  own.  How  much  espionage,  gossip 
ing,  and  travelling  night  and  day,  is  essential  to  this 
system  of  policy,  let  the  inhabitants  of  almost  any 
of  the  New-England  villages  testify.  In  these  re 
spects,  the  native  Indian  is  surely  a  model  of  polite 
ness  for  them. 

It  has  been  remarked,  that  the  guest  of  the  aged 
warrior  and  his  wife,  was  in  feeble  health.  Their 
tender  and  unceasing  cares, — their  expedients  to 
promote  her  comfort  and  alleviate  her  suffering,  were 
truly  paternal.  The  hoary-headed  man  would  go 
forth  as  a  hunter,  or  urge  his  boat  into  deep  and  dis 
tant  waters,  to  obtain  something  that  might  tempt 
her  declining  appetite.  He  would  pass  with  the  agile 
step  of  youth,  the  several  miles,  that  intervened  be 
tween  their  settlement  and  the  city,  to  procure  for 
her  some  of  those  tropical  fruits  which  are  so  grate 
ful  to  the  parched  and  febrile  lip.  Martha  exerted 
constantly,  but  almost  in  vain,  her  utmost  skill  in 
the  culinary  art ;  she  brought  statedly  the  draught 
of  new,  warm  milk,  and  added  to  her  dessert  the 
purest  honey.  She  explored  the  fields  for  the  first 
ripe  strawberries,  which  she  presented  in  little  bas 
kets  of  fresh,  green  leaves,  garnished  with  flowers. 
She  sat  whole  nights  by  the  couch  of  the  invalid,  and 
was  near  her  side  at  every  indication  of  pain,  as  the 
nursing-mother  watches  the  cradled  infant.  These 


140  ORIAWA. 

attentions  were  received  with  a  grateful  smile,  or  with 
the  softest  voice  of  thanks ;  but  they  availed  little. 
The  lily  grew  paler  on  its  stem,  and  seemed  likely 
to  wither  away  in  its  unrevealed  loveliness. 

Advancing  spring  was  now  every  day  dispensing 
some  new  gift  to  the  earth.  Her  lavishness  seemed 
proportioned  to  the  brevity  of  her  stay,  and  each 
hour  exhibited  some  bright  memorial  of  her  parting 
bounty.  The  two  most  delightful  seasons  of  the  year 
lingered  for  a  moment  on  each  other's  boundary. 
They  stood  forth  in  their  unadjusted  claims  to  supe 
riority,  scanned  each  other's  drapery,  dipped  their 
pencils  in  each  other's  dyes,  and  like  rival  goddesses 
contended  before  the  sons  of  men,  for  the  palm  of 
beauty.  The  rude  domain  of  the  children  of  the 
forest,  put  on  its  beautiful  garments.  They,  whose 
pretensions  to  equality  were  denied  by  their  more 
fortunate  brethren,  were  not  excluded  by  nature  from 
her  smiles,  or  her  exuberance.  Through  the  rich 
green  velvet  of  their  meadows,  pure  fountains  look 
ed  up  with  their  crystalline  eyes,  wild  flowers  un 
folded  their  petals,  and  from  every  copse  issued 
strains  of  warbling  melody,  as  if  a  voice  of  praise 
perpetually  repeated, — "  Thou  makest  the  outgoings 
of  the  morning  and  of  the  evening  to  rejoice." 

The  abode  of  Zachary  and  Martha  felt  the  en 
livening  influence  of  the  season.  Their  fragrant 
shrubbery  exhaled  a  purer  essence,  a  sweet-brier 
near  their  door  expanded  its  swelling  buds,  and  the 
woodbine  protruded  its  young  tendrils  to  reach  the 


ORIANA.  141 

window  of  the  invalid.  But  within  its  walls,  was 
age  that  knew  no  spring,  and  youth  fading  like  a 
blighted  flower ;  night,  that  could  know  no  dawning, 
and  morning  that  must  never  ascend  to  noon. 

Day  had  closed  over  the  inhabitants  of  that  peace 
ful  dwelling.  The  warrior  and  his  companion  were 
seated  in  the  room  appropriated  to  their  mysterious 
guest.  Languidly  reclining,  she  watched  the  rising 
of  the  full,  unclouded  moon,  like  one  who  loves  its 
beams,  and  in  gazing,  contemplates  a  returnless  fare 
well.  The  bright  profuse  tresses  of  that  beautiful 
being,  twining  in  braids  around  a  head  of  perfect 
symmetry,  formed  a  strong  contrast  to  the  snowy 
whiteness  of  her  brow,  and  seemed  to  deepen  the 
tint  of  her  soft,  blue  eye.  But  the  paleness  of  her 
cheek  was  now  tinted  with  that  ominous  hectic  flush 
which  Death  kindles,  as  the  signal  of  his  approaching 
victory.  Sometimes,  it  lent  to  the  eye,  a  ray  of 
such  unearthly  brightness,  that  the  Indian  mother 
could  not  look  on  it,  without  a  tear.  She  had  recent 
ly  remarked  to  her  husband,  that  the  form  of  the 
uncomplaining  victim  was  becoming  daily  more 
emaciated,  and  her  respiration  more  impeded  and 
laborious. 

The  invalid  gazed  long  on  the  moon,  with  a  fore 
head  resting  on  a  hand  of  the  purest  whiteness,  and 
so  attenuated,  that  it  seemed  to  display  the  flexile 
fingers  of  childhood.  Turning  her  eyes  from  that 
beautiful  orb,  she  observed  those  of  the  aged  pair 
fixed  upon  her  with  intense  earnestness.  A  long 


142  OKI  ANA. 

pause  ensued.  Something  that  refused  utterance 
seemed  to  agitate  her.  Marking  the  emotion  which 
varied  a  countenance  usually  so  serene  and  passion 
less,  they  forbore  to  interrupt  her  meditations.  They 
even  dreaded  to  hear  her  speak,  lest  it  might  be  of 
separation.  At  length,  a  voice,  tremulous  and  mu 
sical  as  the  stricken  harp,  was  heard  to  say, — 

"  Father,  I  desire  to  partake  of  the  holy  commu 
nion.  I  have  not  enjoyed  that  privilege,  since 
leaving  my  native  land,  and  my  soul  desires  it." 

"  He  who  interprets  to  us  Indians,  the  will  of 
God,"  said  Zachary,  "  is  now  among  our  brethren, 
the  .Oneidas.  Three  moons  may  pass,  ere  he  again 
return." 

"  That  may  be  too  late,  father,"  replied  the  same 
tuneful,  subdued  tone.  "  Wilt  thou  seek  for  me  some 
other  clergyman?" 

The  warrior  signified  his  assent,  and  rising,  took 
from  her  hand  a  paper  which  she  held  to  him. 

"  Some  explanation  of  my  history  is  necessary, 
ere  I  could  expect  this  favor.  I  have  here  written 
it,  for  thou  knowest  that  I  cannot  now  speak  many 
words.  I  am  weak,  and  must  soon  pass  away." 

Martha  rose  with  that  indefinable  sensation  which 
prompts  us  to  shrink  from  any  subject  that  agonizes 
our  feelings.  Throwing  up  the  casement,  through 
which  the  balmy  humid  air  of  spring  breathed,  she 
said, — 

"  See,  Oriana,  how  thy  woodbine  grows  !  Soon, 
its  young  blossoms  will  lift  their  heads,  and  look  at 
thee  through  the  window." 


ORIANA.  143 

"  Let  it  remind  thee  of  me,  kind  mother.  May  its 
fragrance  be  soothing  to  thee,  as  thy  tenderness  has 
been,  to  my  lone  heart." 

Again  there  was  silence.  And  then  the  hoary 
warrior,  raising  his  head  from  his  bosom,  where  it 
had  declined,  spoke,  in  a  voice  which  as  he  proceed 
ed,  grew  more  audible  and  calm, — 

"  Daughter,  I  understand  thee.  I  am  glad,  that 
thou  hast  spoken  thy  mind  to  us.  Yet  is  my  heart 
now  weak,  as  that  of  an  infant, — the  heart  that  in 
battle  hath  never  trembled,  or  swerved.  My  daugh 
ter,  Zachary  could  lie  down  in  his  own  grave,  and 
not  shudder.  Yet  his  soul  is  soft,  when  he  sees  one 
so  young  and  fair,  withering  like  the  rose,  which  the 
hidden  worm  eateth.  He  hath  desired  to  look  on 
thy  brow,  during  the  short  space  that  remaineth  for 
him  on  earth.  Every  night,  he  hath  prayed  to  the 
Eternal,  that  his  ears  might  continue  to  hear  the 
music  of  thy  voice.  He  wished  to  have  something 
to  love,  that  should  not  be  like  himself,  an  old  tree, 
stripped  of  its  branches,  and  mouldering  at  the  root. 
But  he  must  humble  his  heart.  Thou  hast  read  to 
him  from  the  holy  and  blessed  Book,  that  God  giveth 
grace  unto  the  humble.  He  hath  asked  with  tears, 
in  the  silence  of  midnight,  for  that  salvation  through 
Christ,  of  which  thou  hast  told  him.  Yet,  to  whom 
will  he  and  Martha  turn,  when  thou  art  no  longer 
here  ?  Who  will  kindly  lead  their  steps  to  the  tree 
of  life  ?  Ask  I  what  we  shall  do,  as  if  we  had  yet 
a  hundred  years  to  dwell  below  ?  Soon  shall  we 
sleep  in  the  grave,  to  which  thou  art  hastening." 


144  ORIANA. 

"  Whither  I  go,  ye  know,"  said  the  same  sweet, 
solemn  voice, — "  and  the  way  ye  know.  Trust  in 
Him,  whom  ye  have  believed.  Like  me,  ye  must 
slumber  in  the  dust ;  His  power  shall  raise  us  all, 
at  the  last  day.  The  Eternal,  in  whose  sight,  shades 
of  complexion  and  distinctions  of  rank  are  nothing, 
He,  who  looketh  only  upon  the  heart,  guide  us  where 
we  shall  be  sundered  no  more." 

Laying  her  hand  upon  a  small  bible,  which  was 
ever  near  her,  Martha  arose  to  bring  the  lamp, 
that  she  might  as  usual  read  to  them,  before  re 
tiring. 

"  It  is  in  vain,  mother,"  she  said,  with  a  lamb-like 
smile.  I  may  not  now  say  with  thee,  our  evening 
prayer.  But  let  us  lift  up  our  hearts  to  Him  who 
heareth,  when  the  weak  lips  can  only  utter  sighs." 

Then,  as  if  regretting  that  they  should  separate 
for  the  night,  without  mingling  in  devotion,  she  re 
peated  with  deep  pathos,  a  few  passages  from  the 
beloved  disciple, — 

"  *  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled :  ye  believe  in 
God,  believe  also  in  me.  In  my  father's  house  are 
many  mansions.' " 

The  warrior,  rising  to  take  his  leave,  laid  his  hand 
gently  upon  her  head,  and  pronounced  his  customa 
ry  paternal  benediction : — 

"  The  Great  Spirit,  who  dwelleth  where  the  Sun 
hideth  himself,  and  where  the  tempest  is  born,  gird 
thee  with  strength.  He  who  maketh  the  earth  green, 
and  the  heart  of  man  glad,  smile  on  thee,  and  bless 
thy  slumbers." 


ORIANA.  145 

Martha  remained,  to  render  her  usual  attentions 
to  the  sufferer.  She  dared  not  trust  her  voice  be 
yond  a  whisper,  lest  it  should  wholly  yield  to  her 
emotions.  Still,  after  her  services  were  completed, 
she  lingered,  unwilling  to  leave  the  object  of  her 
care. 

"  Mother,"  said  a  faint  voice,  "  kind,  tender  mo 
ther,  go  to  thy  rest.  Oriana  hath  now  no  pain. 
Sleep  will  descend  upon  her.  She  feels  that  she 
shall  not  leave  thee  this  night.  But  soon  she  must 
begin  her  journey  to  the  land  of  souls.  She  hath 
hope  in  her  death,  to  pass  from  darkness  to  eternal 
sunshine.  Weep  not,  blessed  mother.  Lift  thy 
heart  to  the  God  of  consolation.  I  believe  that 
whither  I  go,  thou  shalt  come  also.  I  shall  return 
no- more.  Thou,  and  thy  beloved,  shall  come  unto 
me.  There  will  be  scarcely  time  to  mourn  ;  for,  like 
the  gliding  of  a  shadow,  shall  the  parents  follow  the 
child  of  their  adoption." 

A  smile  so  celestial  was  on  the  brow  of  her  who 
spoke,  that  it  would  have  cheered  the  heart  of  the 
aged  woman,  but  for  the  afflicting  consciousness, 
that  she  must  soon  behold  it  no  more. 

The  ensuing  day,  the  summoned  clergyman 
sought  the  settlement  of  the  natives,  and  entered  the 
house  of  Zachary  and  Martha.  He  received  their 
respectful  salutations  with  benignity,  and  seemed 
struck  with  the  exceeding  beauty  of  the  stranger- 
guest.  After  a  conversation,  in  which  he  was  con 
vinced  of  her  religious  education,  correct  belief,  and 
N 


146  ORIANA. 

happy  spiritual  state,  he  prepared  to  administer  the 
rite  which  she  had  desired.  Beckoning  to  her  side 
the  old  warrior  and  his  wife,  she  said, — 

"  These  are  Christians.  They  were  baptised, 
many  years  since,  by  Mr.  Occum,  their  absent  min 
ister.  I  can  bear  witness,  that  they  know  and  love 
the  truth.  May  they  not  join  in  this  holy  ordinance, 
to  the  edification  of  their  souls  7" 

The  clergyman,  regarding  them  steadfastly,  in 
quired, — 

"  Are  ye  in  perfect  charity  with  all  men.?" 

Bowing  himself  down,  the  aged  man  replied,  so 
lemnly, — 

"We  are. — The  religion  of  Jesus  Christ  hath 
taught  even  us,  Indians,  to  forgive  our  enemies." 

They  kneeled  around  the  bed.  The  stately  war 
rior,  whose  temples  had  been  whitened  by  the  snows 
of  time,  and  the  storms  of  war,  humbled  himself  as 
the  weaned  child.  The  red-browed  woman,  whose 
tears  flowed  incessantly,  was  not  able  to  turn  her 
eyes  from  that  fading  flower,  which  she  had  shelter 
ed,  and  which  she  loved,  as  if  it  had  sprung  from 
her  own  wild  soil.  But  the  beautiful  being  for  whose 
sake  these  sacred  services  were  thus  performed,  was 
calm  and  untroubled  as  the  lake,  on  which  nothing 
save  the  beam  of  heaven  hath  ever  shone.  Raised 
above  earthly  fears  and  hopes,  she  seemed  to  have 
a  foretaste  of  the  consummation  that  awaited  her. 
The  heart  of  the  man  of  God  was  touched.  His 
voice  faltered  as  he  pronounced  the  closing  bene- 


ORIANA.  147 

diction,  and  a  tear  starting  to  his  mild  eye,  attested 
the  accordance  of  his  soul  with  the  sympathies  of  the 
scene. 

A  brief  pause  ensued.  Each  was  fearful  of  inter 
rupting  the  meditations  of  the  other.  Like  the  guests 
at  some  celestial  banquet,  earth,  and  the  things  of 
earth,  seemed  emptiness  to  the  sublimated  spirit. 
She  dreads  too  suddenly  to  efface  the  brightness 
which  has  gathered  around  her,  and  which  like  the 
witness  on  the  brow  of  Moses,  descending  from  the 
mount,  proves  communion  with  the  Eternal. 

To  the  inquiry  of  the  departing  clergyman,  in 
what  way  he  might  impart  temporal  comfort,  or 
whether  the  visits  of  a  physician  were  not  desirable, 
Oriana  replied, — 

"  I  have  no  want,  but  what  these  kind  and  watch 
ful  beings  tenderly  supply.  Their  knowledge  of 
medicine  is  considerable,  and  they  prepare  with  skill, 
soothing  and  assuasive  remedies,  drawn  from  that 
earth,  to  whose  bosom  I  am  hastening.  With  the 
nature  of  my  disease,  I  am  acquainted.  I  saw  all 
its  variations  in  my  mother,  for  whom  every  exer 
tion  of  professional  skill  was  fruitless.  I  feel  upon 
my  heart,  a  cold  hand.  Whither  it  is  leading  me,  I 
know.  To  you,  Sir,  I  shall  look  for  those  spiritual 
consolations,  which  are  all  that  my  brief  earthly  pil 
grimage  covets.  When  my  ear  is  closed  to  the  sound 
of  other  voices,  speak  to  me  of  my  Redeemer,  and 
the  eye  that  is  dim  in  death,  shall  once  more  bright 
en,  to  bless  you." 


148  ORIANA. 

Zachary  and  Martha  poured  forth,  with  the  elo 
quence  of  the  heart,  their  thanks  to  the  servant  of 
peace  and  consolation.  Even  the  skirts  of  his  gar 
ments  were  dear  to  them,  since  he  had  thus  impart 
ed  comfort  to  the  object  of  their  affections. 

Exhausted  in  body,  but  confirmed  in  faith,  Oriana 
awaited  her  dissolution.  Such  was  the  wasting  of 
her  frame,  that  she  seemed  like  a  light  essence, 
trembling,  and  ready  to  be  exhaled.  Every  morn 
ing,  she  requested  the  casement  to  be  raised,  that  the 
fresh  air  might  visit  her.  It  came,  loaded  with  the 
perfume  of  those  flowers,  which  she  was  to  nurture 
no  more.  But  what  was  at  first  sought  as  a  plea 
sure,  became  necessary  to  aid  the  struggles  of  labo 
rious  respiration.  The  couch  became  her  constant 
refuge.  The  debility  of  that  fearful  disease,  which, 
delighting  to  feed  on  the  most  exquisite  food,  selects 
for  its  victims  the  fair  and  excellent,  increased  to  an 
almost  insupportable  degree.  A  tranquil  loveliness 
sat  upon  her  features,  occasionally  brightening  into 
joy,  like  one  who  felt  that  "  redemption  draweth 
nigh." 

One  night,  sleep  had  not  visited  her  eyes.  When 
ever  her  senses  inclined  to  its  transient  sway,  the 
spirit  revolted  against  it  as  oppression,  anticipating 
the  approaching  delights  of  that  region,  where  it 
should  slumber  no  more  through  fullness  of  bliss. 

Calling  to  her  bed-side,  at  the  dawn  of  morning, 
the  aged  warrior,  for  her  mother  had  not  quitted  her 
room  for  several  nights,  she  said, — 


ORIANA.  149 

"  Knowest  thou,  father,  that  I  am  now  to  leave 
thee?" 

Fixing  his  keen  glance  on  her  for  a  moment,  and 
kneeling  at  her  side,  he  answered, — 

"  Daughter,  I  know  it.  Thy  blue  eye  hath  al 
ready  the  light  of  that  sky,  whither  thou  art  ascend 
ing.  Thy  brow  is  bright  with  the  smile  of  the  angels 
who  wait  for  thee." 

Martha  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  hid 
it  on  the  couch,  fearful  lest  she  might  see  the  agony 
of  one  so  beloved.  Yet  she  fixed  on  those  pale  fea 
tures,  one  more  long,  tender,  sorrowing  gaze,  as  the 
expiring  voice  uttered — 

"  I  go,  where  is  no  shade  of  complexion,  no  tear 
of  mourning.  I  go  to  my  parents,  who  died  in  faith, 
— to  my  husband,  whose  hope  was  in  his  Redeemer. 
I  shall  see  thy  daughter,  and  she  will  be  my  sister, 
where  all  is  love.  Father ! — Mother  ! — that  God 
whom  you  have  learned  to  worship,  whose  spirit 
dwells  in  your  hearts,  will  guide  you  thither,  also." 

She  paused,  and  gasped  painfully  for  breath,  as 
if  to  add  more.  Then,  extending  to  each  a  hand 
cold  as  marble,  she  faintly  whispered, — 

"  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me  in  : — sick,  and 
ye  ministered  unto  me.  And  now,  blessing  you,  I 
go  unto  Him,  who  hath  said,  the  *  merciful  shall 
obtain  mercy.'  He  will  remember  your  love  to  her 
who  had  none  to  pity." 

They  felt  that  the  chilling  clasp  of  her  fingers 
relaxed.  They  saw  that  her  lips  moved  inaudibly. 
N2 


1,50  ORIAPfA. 

They  knew,  by  the  upraised  glance  of  her  glazed 
eye,  that  she  spoke  to  Him  who  was  receiving  her 
to  himself.  A  smile,  not  to  be  described,  gleamed 
like  a  ray  of  sunshine  over  her  countenance.  Bend 
ing  over  her  pillow,  they  heard  the  words, — "joy 
unspeakable,  and  full  of  glory."  Something  more 
was  breathed  inarticulately.  But  she  closed  not  the 
sentence  : — it  was  finished  in  Heaven  ! 

Deep  silence  settled  over  the  apartment  of  the 
dead,  save  the  sobs  of  the  bereaved  Martha,  and  at 
long  intervals  a  sigh,  as  if  rending  the  breast  of  the 
aged  warrior.  At  length,  he  spoke  with  a  tremulous 
and  broken  tone, — 

"  She  was  as  the  sun  to  our  path.  Hath  she  faded 
behind  the  dark  mountains?  No, — she  hath  arisen 
to  brighter  skies.  Beams  of  her  light  will  sometimes 
visit  and  cheer  us.  Thou  hast  wept  for  two  daugh 
ters,  Martha.  One,  thou  didst  nurse  upon  thy  breast. 
But  was  she  dearer  than  this  ?  Was  not  the  child 
of  our  adoption,  near  to  thy  heart,  as  she  to  whom 
thou  gavest  life  ?  Henceforth,  we  can  be  made  child 
less  no  more.  Let  us  dry  up  the  fountain  of  our 
tears,  lest  they  displease  the  God  to  whom  she  hath 
ascended." 

The  day  seemed  of  interminable  length  to  the 
afflicted  pair.  Long  accustomed  to  measure  time  by 
the  varieties  of  solicitude,  the  loss  of  that  sole  object 
of  their  care,  gave  the  tardy  hours  an  almost  insup 
portable  weight.  Towards  evening,  the  clergyman 
who,  since  the  administration  of  the  communion  to 


ORIANA.  151 

Oriana,  had  repeatedly  visited  her,  was  seen  to  ap 
proach.  Zachary  hastened  to  meet  him.  The  agi 
tation  which  had  so  long  marked  his  countenance, 
with  anxiety  for  the  sufferer,  had  passed  away,  arid 
he  resumed  his  native  calmness  and  dignity  of  de 
meanor.  His  deportment  seemed  an  illustration  of 
the  words  of  the  king  of  Israel,  when  his  child  was 
smitten, — 

"  He  is  dead.  Wherefore  should  I  mourn  ?  Can 
I  bring  him  back  again  ?  I  shall  go  to  him,  but  he 
shall  not  return  to  me." 

Bowing  down  to  the  man  of  God,  he  said, — 

"  She,  whom  thou  seekest,  is  not  here.  She  is 
risen.  She  went  her  way,  ere  the  sun  looked  upon 
the  morning.  Come,  see  the  place  where  she  lay." 

Departing  from  that  distance  of  respect,  bordering 
upon  awe,  which  he  had  hitherto  testified  to  the  guide 
of  Oriana,  he  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  to 
her  apartment,  as  if  he  felt  that  in  the  house  of 
death,  all  distinctions  were  levelled,  all  ranks  made 
equal.  There  lay  the  lifeless  form,  in  unchanged 
beauty.  Profuse  curls  shaded  with  their  rich  and 
glossy  hue,  the  pure  oval  forehead,  which  bore  no 
furrow  of  care,  nor  trace  of  pain.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  exquisite  symmetry  of  those  chiselled  features, 
had  never  been  perfectly  revealed  but  by  the  hand 
of  death.  The  long,  silken  eye-lashes  lay  in  pro 
found  repose,  and  it  was  thrilling  even  to  awe,  to 
gaze  upon  that  surpassing  loveliness,  rendered  more 
sacred  by  having  so  peacefully  past  the  last  dread 
ordeal. 


152  ORIANA. 

"  It  is  finished,"  said  the  divine,  but  no  tear  start 
ed  to  his  placid  eye.  He  believed,  that  if  there  is 
joy  in  heaven  among  the  angels,  over  one  sinner 
that  repenteth,  there  should  be,  at  least,  resignation 
on  earth,  when  a  saint  is  admitted  io  their  glorious 
company.  He  kneeled  in  prayer  with  the  mourners, 
and  spoke  kind  words  of  comfort  to  them,  as  to  his 
brethren,  and  made  arrangements  with  them,  that 
the  remains  of  their  beloved  one  might  rest  in  con 
secrated  earth. 

Three  days  elapsed,  and  the  scene  changed  to  the 
burial-ground  in  Norwich,  where  a  few  forms,  seen 
indistinctly  through  drooping  shades,  were  watching 
the  arrival  of  some  funeral  train. 

Perhaps,  amid  that  musing  group,  were  some  re 
cent  mourners,  who  felt  their  wounds  bleed  afresh,  at 
the  sight  of  an  open  grave.  Some  parent  might  be 
there,  lingering  in  agony  over  the  newly-covered  bed 
of  his  child ;  some  daughter,  kneeling  to  kiss  the 
green  turf  on  the  breast  of  her  mother ;  some  lover, 
passionately  weeping  over  the  ruins  of  the  fondest 
hope.  How  many  varieties  of  grief  had  that  nar 
row  spot  witnessed,  since  it  cast  its  heavy  mantle 
over  the  head  of  its  first  tenant !  How  many  hearts 
had  there  laid  the  cherished  roses  of  their  bower, 
and  passed  the  remainder  of  their  withering  pilgrim 
age  beneath  the  cloud !  And  with  those  mournful 
recollections,  did  no  pang  of  compunction  mingle  ? 
Can  affection  always  say,  when  it  lays  its  idol  in  the 
tomb,  that  there  is  on  Memory's  tablet  no  trace  that 


ORIANA.  153 

she  would  fain  expunge  1 — no  act  of  tenderness  un- 
returned  ? — no  debt  of  gratitude  uncancelled  ? — no 
kind  word  left  unspoken? — no  heaven-prompted 
intention  unfulfilled  ?  Amid  that  pensive  train,  was 
there  no  unhappy  heart,  where  the  thorn  of  con 
science  must  rankle,  after  the  wound  of  God's  visita 
tion  had  healed  1 

Others  too  might  have  wandered  there,  from  whose 
bosoms  the  corrosion  of  sorrow  had  been  easily  ef 
faced,  whose  determination  to  "  go  down  to  the  grave, 
to  the  lost  one,  mourning,"  had  yielded  to  the  eager 
pursuit  of  other  pleasures, — whose  once  desolated 
shrine  resounded  with  the  worship  of  some  new 
image,  proving  that  there  is  nothing  unchangeable 
in  man,  save  his  tendency  to  change. 

Yet  of  whatever  nature  were  the  reflections  of  the 
train  that  thus  circled  the  "  cold  turf-altar  of  the 
dead,"  they  were  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  a 
funeral  procession.  Next  to  the  bier,  walked  those 
whom  the  rite  of  adoption  had  made  parents,  the 
settled  grief  of  whose  countenances  seemed  as  if 
deploring  the  loss  of  a  first-born.  Partaking  in 
their  sorrow,  and  desirous  of  paying  the  last  offices 
of  respect  to  the  departed,  almost  the  whole  tribe 
had  gathered,  walking  two  and  two,  with  solemn  and 
dejected  countenances.  There  was  something  un 
speakably  affecting  in  the  mourning  of  that  heart 
broken  race  for  the  fallen  stranger.  Strangers 
themselves,  in  the  land  that  was  once  their  own,  their 
humbled  spirits  seemed  in  unison  with  the  sad  scene, 


154  ORIANA. 

and  with  the  open  grave.  Indeed,  every  heart  seem 
ed  touched  with  peculiar  sympathy,  at  this  burial, 
in  foreign  earth,  of  the  lone, — the  young  and  the 
beautiful, — 

"By  strangers  honor'd,  and  by  strangers  mourn'd." 

At  the  close  of  the  obsequies,  the  clergyman  drew 
near  to  the  aged  warrior.  His  few  silver  locks  waved  in 
the  light  summer  breeze,  and  his  eyes,  intently  fixed 
upon  the  new-covered  grave,  were  red  and  tearless. 
Roused  by  affectionate  words,  he  replied,  but  ab 
stractedly,  and  as  speaking  to  himself, — "  She  told 
us  of  the  resurrection,  and  of  Him  who  is  the  truth 
and  the  life."  Martha,  taking  with  reverence  the 
hand  that  was  offered  her,  placed  a  small  packet  in 
it,  and  said — "  She  left  this  for  you ;  and  she  bless 
ed  you,  when  the  cold  dew  stood  on  her  forehead, 
like  rain-drops." 

After  his  return  to  his  habitation,  the  clergyman 
perused  with  deep  interest,  the  parting  bequest  of 
Oriana. 

"  You  have  expressed  a  wish,  my  dear  and  reve 
rend  benefactor,  for  a  more  minute  detail  of  my  his 
tory,  than  my  weakness  has  permitted  me  orally  to 
impart.  I  will,  therefore,  recount  with  my  pen  some 
of  its  particulars,  to  meet  your  eye  when  my  own 
shall  be  closed  in  dust.  It  will  then  be  time  to  lift 
the  veil  of  mystery,  when  I  can  no  longer  be  pained 
by  the  curiosity  of  strangers,  nor  affected  by  their 
opinion. 

"  You,  Sir,  have  without  suspicion  reposed  confi- 


ORIANA.  155 

dence  in  the  imperfect  narrative  which  has  been  in 
trusted  to  you.  You  have  not,  as  the  cold-hearted 
multitude  might  have  done,  wounded  with  the  cruel 
ty  of  distrust,  a  heart  long  sinking  beneath  the  visi 
tation  of  God.  You  will  not  now  believe,  that  a 
spirit  nurtured  in  the  love  of  truth,  could  use  subter 
fuge  or  guile,  when  on  the  threshold  of  His  presence, 
who  *  hateth  every  false  way.' 

"  I  am  a  native  of  England,  and  of  respectable, 
though  not  wealthy  parentage.  Among  my  first, 
and  most  agonizing  remembrances,  is  the  death  of 
my  father.  Our  residence  was  in  a  neat  and  retired 
cottage,  where  my  mother  solaced  her  early  widow 
hood,  by  an  entire  devotion  to  my  welfare.  Her 
education  had  been  superior  to  what  is  usually  found 
among  those  of  our  rank,  and  she  led  me  almost  in 
infancy  to  prize  intellectual  pleasures.  I  can  scarce 
ly  imagine  a  lot,  more  congenial  with  happiness  than 
our  own.  Our  income  was  adequate  to  every  want, 
and  that  industry  which  preserved  health,  gave  us 
also  the  power  of  administering  to  the  necessities 
of  others.  When  my  daily  tasks  were  accomplish 
ed,  my  recreations  were  to  tend  my  flowers,  to  read, 
converse,  or  walk  with  my  mother,  in  the  romantic 
country  that  surrounded  us,  or  to  join  my  voice  to 
the  birds  that  warbled  near  our  habitation.  To  men 
tal  cultivation,  my  affectionate  parent  added  the 
most  assiduous  religious  instruction,  and  to  the  bless 
ing  of  the  Holy  Spirit  on  her  guidance,  do  I  impute 
it,  that  the  foundation  of  my  faith  was  so  strongly 
laid,  as  not  to  fail  me  now,  in  my  hour  of  trial. 


156  ORIANA. 

"Forgive  me,  for  lingering  a  little  longer,  around 
this  bower  of  my  happiness.  It  was  the  Eden  of 
my  existence.  It  was  also  the  birth-place  of  my 
love.  Here  the  strongest  ardor  of  a  young  and  sus 
ceptible  heart  awoke,  and  was  reciprocated.  The 
ruling  sentiment  of  my  nature,  and  one  of  its  ear 
liest  developments,  was  a  desire  for  knowledge. 
To  this,  our  restricted  resources  interposed  a  bar 
rier.  It  was  the  only  alloy  of  my  felicity.  How 
could  I  therefore  but  highly  appreciate  the  acquaint 
ance  of  a  man  of  refined  education, — of  splendid 
talents,  well  balanced  by  correspondent  attainments 
and  sublimated  piety?  He  brought  me  books  to 
which  I  had  no  other  means  of  access,  and  by  his 
eloquent  explanations  made  the  dim  ages  of  remote 
history,  vivid  and  alluring.  He  took  pleasure  in 
guiding  my  mind  through  the  paths  of  science  and 
literature,  with  which  his  own  was  familiar, — in  in 
troducing  it  to  unbounded  regions  of  thought,  and  in 
tracing  its  delighted  astonishment,  when  new  truths 
burst  upon  it  in  beauty,  and  in  power.  To  me,  he 
seemed  as  a  benevolent  and  glorious  spirit,  striving 
to  elevate  an  inferior  being  to  his  own  high  intellec 
tual  sphere.  So  strong  and  pervading  was  this  en 
thusiasm,  that  I  did  not  imagine  that  the  youth  and 
grace  of  my  instructor  had  any  agency  in  creating 
it.  Love  stole  upon  my  simplicity  in  the  guise  of 
wisdom,  and  I  was  his  disciple  while  I  believed  my 
self  only  the  worshipper  of  Minerva.  It  was  also 
evident,  that  he  who  had  opened  to  my  enraptured 


OKI  AN  A.  157 

view,  the  world  of  letters,  loved  the  mind  which  he 
had  himself  adorned  ;  like  him,  of  ancient  fable,  who, 
imparting  fire  from  heaven  to  an  inert  mass,  became 
its  adorer. 

"  Authorized  by  maternal  sanction,  in  cherishing 
this  new  affection,  every  day  heightened  its  ardor, 
and  every  night  I  thanked  my  father  in  heaven,  with 
exuberant  gratitude,  for  the  fullness  of  my  joy.  In 
the  enthusiasm  of  my  attachment,  I  regretted  that 
the  rank  and  fortune  of  my  lover  were  so  superior 
to  my  own,  and  wished  for  the  power  of  proving  by 
some  severe  sacrifice  the  disinterested  spirit  of  my 
affection. 

"But  clouds  were  impending  over  the  brightened 
scene.  My  mother's  health  declined.  It  was  in  vain 
that  she  strove  to  conceal  from  me  the  symptoms 
of  that  insidious  and  fatal  disease  which  is  now  lead 
ing  her  daughter  to  the  tomb.  I  watched  in  agony 
the  struggles  of  a  pure  spirit,  disengaging  itself 
from  clay.  Even  now,  I  think  I  hear  her  sweet, 
broken  voice,  saying  to  me, — '  I  leave  you,  not  to 
the  bitterness  of  orphanage,  but  to  the  protection  of 
one  who  loves,  and  is  beloved  by,  the  orphan's  God.' 
The  stream  of  life  flowed  on  so  placidly,  when  about 
to  join  the  ocean  of  Eternity,  that  we  dreaded  by 
any  turbid  mixture  of  earth  to  disturb  its  purity,  or 
interrupt  its  repose.  We  therefore  forbore  to  men 
tion  to  her  the  opposition  to  our  union,  which  had 
arisen  on  the  part  of  his  father,  whose  pride  repelled 
the  thought  of  such  alliance  with  a  cottager.  Find- 
O 


158  ORIANA. 

ing,  in  this  case,  a  departure  from  the  implicit  obe 
dience  that  he  had  heretofore  received,  he  resorted 
to  threats,  and  to  unkindness.  His  sudden  death, 
which  took  place  just  before  that  of  my  mother,  con 
firmed  the  truth  of  his  menaces,  by  disinheritance. 
To  me,  this  patrimonial  exclusion  scarcely  bore  a 
feature  of  adversity ;  since  it  permitted  the  proof 
that  mercenary  motives  had  no  agency  in  my  love. 
Even  the  intelligence  at  which  I  should  once  have 
shuddered,  that  his  only  resource  was  to  join  the 
army  under  Lord  Cornwallis,  then  in  America,  was 
received  with  scarcely  a  pang ;  for  I  felt  that  my  oft- 
repeated  wis-h,  to  evince  the  strength  of  my  affection 
by  the  sacrifices  it  was  capable  of  enduring,  might 
now  be  fulfilled. 

"The  holy  service  of  the  altar,  my  sainted  mo 
ther's  obsequies,  and  the  farewell  to  our  cottage,  fol 
lowed  each  other  in  such  rapid  succession,  that,  lost 
in  a  bewildering  dream,  I  seemed  incapable  of  fully 
realizing  either.  Yet  methought,  our  peaceful  re 
treat  had  never  worn  so  many  charms,  as  at  the 
moment  of  quitting  it  for  ever.  Its  roses  and  wood 
bines  displayed  all  their  freshness,  breathed  all  their 
fragrance.  The  surrounding  lawn  was  like  the 
richest  velvet,  and  the  birds  whom  I  had  loved  as 
companions,  poured  from  the  verdant  branches,  mu 
sic  too  joyous  for  a  parting  strain.  The  records  of 
childhood's  deep  happiness  were  still  vivid  wherever 
I  turned,  for  my  seventeenth  birth-day  had  scarcely 
past.  Every  path,  where  a  departed  mother's  step 


ORIANA.  159 

had  trod, — every  haunt  which  her  taste  had  decor 
ated, — every  vine  that  her  hand  had  trained,  spoke 
to  me  in  the  voice  of  deep,  tender,  lingering  affec 
tion.  Once,  I  should  have  exclaimed,  with  a  burst 
of  bitter  weeping, — '  And  must  I  leave  thee,  Pa 
radise  ?'  But  I  went  without  a  tear.  He,  who  was 
all  the  world  to  me,  was  by  my  side.  His  arm  sup 
ported  me,  and  methought  all  paths  were  alike,  and 
every  thorn  pointless,  to  one  thus  sustained.  Me 
thought,  I  could  be  a  homeless  wanderer  over  earth's 
face,  and  murmur  not. 

"  I  will  not  detain  you,  reverend  sir,  with  the  de 
tails  of  our  voyage,  or  the  privations  of  a  life  spent 
in  camps.  Like  the  servitude  of  the  patriarch,  whose 
seven  years  were  measured  by  love,  they  seemed  to 
me  as  nothing.  Yet  during  the  conflicts  which  oc 
curred  in  fields  of  blood,  my  wretchedness  was  in 
expressible.  It  was  then  that,  imploring  protection 
for  my  husband,  I  first  understood  what  is  meant 
by  the  <  agony  of  prayer.'  He  was  ambitious  to  stand 
foremost  in  the  ranks  of  danger,  and  his  valor  gain 
ed  him  promotion.  When  called  by  his  duty  to  posts 
of  peril,  and  I  besought  him  to  be  careful  of  life, 
for  my  sake,  he  would  reply  with  that  firm  piety 
which  ever  characterized  him  ;  '  Is  not  my  protector 
the  God  of  battles  ?  is  he  not,  also,  the  God  of  the 
widow  ?' 

"  But  from  the  scenery  of  war,  I  have  ever  shrunk. 
And  now  my  trembling  hand  and  fluttering  heart 
admonish  me  to  be  brief.  Seldom  has  one  who  pos- 


160  ORIANA: 

sessed  such  a  native  aversion  to  all  the  varieties  of 
strife,  such  an  instinctive  horror  at  the  effusion  of 
blood,  been  appointed  to  share  the  fortunes  of  war. 
During  the  investment  of  Yorktown,  in  the  autumn 
of  1781,  my  husband  was  almost  constantly  divided 
from  me,  by  the  duties  of  his  station.  Even  the 
minutest  scenes  of  that  eventful  period,  are  graven 
on  rny  memory,  as  with  the  point  of  a  diamond. 

"  The  affairs  of  the  English  army,  every  day  as 
sumed  a  more  gloomy  and  ominous  aspect.  The 
ships  of  France,  anchored  at  the  mouth  of  York 
river,  prevented  our  receiving  supplies  through  that 
channel,  or  aid  from  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  who,  in 
New-York,  anxiously  awaited  our  destiny.  Despair 
sat  on  the  countenance  of  Cornwallis  ;  and  Tarleton, 
who  had  hitherto  poured  his  intrepid  soul  into  the 
enterprise,  was  suffering  dejection  from  a  painful 
wound.  The  fortifications  of  the  allied  French  and 
Americans  were  every  day  brought  nearer  to  us. 
They  spread  themselves  in  the  form  of  a  crescent, 
cutting  off  our  communication  with  the  adjacent 
country.  The  last  night  of  my  residence  in  that 
fatal  spot,  I  was  peculiarly  distressed  with  fears  for 
my  sole  earthly  stay.  I  ascended  to  the  roof  of  the 
house,  to  take  an  unbroken  view  of  that  glorious 
firmament,  which  had  so  often  led  my  soul  from  the 
woes  of  earth,  to  contemplations  of  heaven.  But  the 
thunder  of  a  terrible  cannonade  riveted  my  attention 
to  terrestrial  scenes.  The  whole  peninsula  seemed 
to  tremble,  beneath  the  enginery  of  war.  Bombs, 


ORIANA.  161 

from  the  batteries  of  both  armies,  were  continually 
crossing  each  other's  path.  Like  meteors,  their 
luminous  trains  traversed  the  skies,  with  awful  sub 
limity. — Sometimes,  I  heard  a  sound,  as  of  the 
hissing  of  a  thousand  serpents,  when  in  their  fall 
they  excavated  the  earth,  and  rent  in  atoms  what 
ever  opposed  them.  Once,  I  saw  severed  and  man 
gled  limbs  from  the  British  armaments  thrown  high 
into  the  air,  by  their  explosion.  I  fancied  a  groan 
of  agony  in  the  voice  that  I  loved,  and  listened  till 
sensation  forsook  me. 

Suddenly  a  column  of  flame  arose  from  the  bo 
som  of  the  river.  It  was  of  ineffable  brightness. 
Methought,  even  the  waters  fed  it,  and  it  spread 
wider,  and  ascended  higher  and  higher,  as  if  doubt 
ful  whether  first  to  enfold  the  earth,  or  the  heavens. 
Two  smaller  furnaces  burst  forth  near  it,  breathing, 
like  their  terrible  parent,  intense  fires,  beautiful  and 
dreadful.  I  gazed,  till  the  waters  glowed  in  one  daz 
zling  expanse,  and  I  knew  not  but  the  Almighty,  in 
wrath  at  the  wickedness  of  man,  was  about  to  kindle 
around  him  an  ocean  of  flame,  as  he  once  whelmed 
him  with  a  deluge  of  waters. 

"  But  nothing  could  hush  the  incessant  roar  of 
those  engines  of  death.  I  wondered  if  man  would 
continue  to  pursue  his  brother,  with  unrelenting  ha 
tred,  even  to  the  conflagration  of  the  day  of  doom  ? 
When  the  influence  of  an  excited  imagination  had 
subsided,  I  discovered  that  this  splendid  and  awful 
pageant  was  the  burning  of  the  Charon,  one  of  our 
O2 


162  ORIANA. 

lofty  ships  of  war,  with  two  smaller  vessels,  at  an 
chor  in  the  river,  which  had  taken  fire  from  the 
French  battery. 

"  Chilled  by  the  dampness  of  the  night  air,  I  de 
scended  from  my  post  of  observation,  and  threw  my 
self  on  my  sleepless  couch.  My  health  had  long  suf 
fered  for  want  of  exercise  in  the  open  air,  from  which 
I  was  precluded  by  the  impossibility  of  having  the 
company  and  protection  of  my  husband.  At  the 
close  of  the  ensuing  day,  he  was  dismissed  for  a 
time  from  military  duty,  and  entered  his  apartment. 
It  was  on  Sunday, — October  14th, — misery  has 
stamped  the  date  indelibly  on  my  soul.  He  proposed 
a  walk,  to  which  I  gladly  assented,  and  mentioned 
as  the  safest  means  of  prolonging  it  to  any  consider 
able  length,  in  streets  thronged  with  soldiers,  a  wish 
that  I  should  array  myself  in  a  suit  of  his  military 
apparel.  Yielding  to  his  reasoning,  I  assumed  this 
disguise,  and  we  pressed  onward,  admiring  the  au 
tumn  scenery,  which  in  the  American  climate  is  so 
peculiarly  brilliant.  We  indulged  in  discourse,  which 
selected  from  the  past  the  most  soothing  recollec 
tions,  and  gilded  the  future  with  the  illusions  of  hope. 
We  followed  the  course  of  the  fortifications,  until 
unconsciously  we  had  passed  our  last  redoubt.  Sud 
denly,  we  heard  the  trampling  of  many  feet.  The 
uniform  of  the  French  and  Americans  was  the  next 
moment  visible  through  the  trees  that  skirted  our 
path.  My  husband  had  scarcely  time  to  draw  his 
sword,  ere  a  volley  of  shot  was  poured  upon  us.  A 


ORIANA.  163 

bullet  pierced  his  breast,  and  he  fell  lifeless  by  my 
side.  I  fell  with  him,  senseless  as  himself.  I  reco 
vered  from  my  swoon,  only  to  mourn  that  I  sur 
vived,  and  to  feel  more  than  the  bitterness  of  death. 

"  Sometimes  I  imagined  that  he  returned  the  pres 
sure  of  my  hand ;  but  it  was  only  the  trickling  of 
his  blood  through  my  own.  Again,  I  fancied  that 
he  sighed ;  but  it  was  the  breath  of  the  hollow  wind 
through  the  reeds  where  his  head  lay.  I  heard  the 
horrible  uproar  of  the  war,  in  the  neighboring  re 
doubts, — the  roar  of  cannon, — the  clash  of  arms,— » 
the  cry  of  the  combatants.  I  knew  that  the  enemy 
were  near.  But  I  attempted  not  to  fly.  What  had 
I  to  lose  ? — What  more  remained  to  me  ? — That  one 
dead  body,  was  my  all  the  world. — I  fell  upon  it. — 
I  supplicated  to  be  made  like  unto  it. 

"  A  band  of  men  rushed  by,  speaking  in  uncouth 
tones.  I  knew  that  they  were  savages.  Then  I 
wished  to  escape,  to  hide  myself.  Yet,  but  a  moment 
before,  like  him  who  despaired  for  his  smitten  gourd, 
I  had  exclaimed, — '  Take  now  away  my  life,  I  pray 
thee ;  for  it  is  better  for  me  to  die  than  to  live.'  Sud 
denly  they  discovered,  and  made  me  their  captive. 
1  expected  to  have  been  borne  to  the  American  camp. 
But  they  continued  to  travel  throughout  the  night. 
From  their  conversation  I  learned  that  two  redoubts 
had  been  stormed  by  the  French  and  Americans, 
with  desperate  valor.  This  was  the  daring  action, 
in  which  La  Fayette  led  on  the  Americans,  and  De 
Viomenil  the  French,  and  which  preceded  but  four 


164  ORIANA. 

days  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis.  The  party  by 
whom  my  husband  had  fallen,  was  the  advance-guard, 
under  Colonel  Hamilton,  and  I  was  the  prisoner  of 
a  small  number  of  Indians,  headed  by  a  Delaware 
chief.  It  seemed  that  they  were  connected  with 
some  embassy  sent  to  discover  the  state  of  affairs  at 
Yorktown,  and  were  not  personally  engaged  in  this 
rencounter.  Thus  was  I  at  the  mercy  of  beings,  at 
whom  I  had  ever  shuddered  as  the  most  savage  of 
mankind.  I  followed  them  as  we  roam  in  some  ter 
rible  dream,  when  motion  is  without  volition,  and 
consciousness  is  misery.  Stupified  with  grief,  my 
mind  was  for  many  days  inadequate  to  the  full  sense 
of  its  wretchedness.  My  captors,  so  far  from  testi 
fying  the  brutality  that  I  had  feared,  were  attentive 
to  my  wants,  and,  in  some  degree,  studious  of  my 
comfort.  I  exerted  myself  to  endure  hardship  as 
unshrinkingly  as  possible,  dreading  lest  they  should 
suspect  my  disguise  ;  but  they  referred  my  compar 
ative  weakness  to  the  effects  of  a  civilization  which 
they  decried,  and  occasionally  satirized  the  effemi 
nacy  of  British  officers. 

"  When  I  began  to  arouse  from  the  stupor  which 
the  whelming  torrent  of  my  afflictions  had  caused, 
a  dreadful  apprehension  took  possession  of  my  mind. 
I  imagined  that  they  were  guarding  my  life  with  such 
care,  in  order  to  make  me  the  victim  of  their  savage 
torture.  This  terror  obtained  predominance  over 
my  grief.  When  I  lay  down  to  sleep  in  the  forests, 
wrapped  closely  in  my  blanket,  and  surrounded  by 


ORIANA.  165 

those  rugged  and  red-browed  warriors,  though 
wearied  to  exhaustion  with  the  travel  of  the  day,  no 
slumber  visited  me.  Plans  of  escape  occupied  every 
night ;  yet  every  day  revealed  their  impracticability. 
During  this  season  of  excitement,  I  was  scarcely 
sensible  of  fatigue.  My  strength  more  than  equalled 
the  labor  imposed ;  so  much  is  the  mind  able  to  rule 
its  terrestrial  companion. 

"  I  observed  that  my  captors,  in  their  journey, 
avoided  the  more  populous  settlements,  and  seemed 
to  regard  the  whites  either  as  intruders,  or  doubtful 
friends.  On  their  arrival  at  a  large  town  in  Penn 
sylvania,  they  directed  me  to  pass  through  the  sub 
urbs  with  a  guard  of  four  men,  evidently  fearing 
that  some  facility  of  escape  might  be  afforded,  if  I 
attracted  the  notice  of  strangers.  Those  who  enter 
ed  the  town,  rejoined  us  with  demonstrations  of  ex 
travagant  joy,  bringing  news  that  the  surrender  of 
Cornwallis  had  taken  place  on  the  18th  of  October, 
and  that  peace  was  confidently  expected.  Pressing 
on  with  unusual  rapidity,  they  prepared  to  pass  the 
night  within  the  borders  of  an  extensive  forest.  Here 
they  kindled  a  fire,  and  conversed  long  in  their  own 
language.  Their  gestures  became  violent,  and  their 
eyes  were  often  bent  on  me,  with  an  expression  of 
savage  fierceness. 

"  At  length,  louder  words,  as  of  conflict,  arose 
between  the  Mohegans  and  Delawares,  of  which  the 
company  was  composed.  I  believed  that  the  strife 
was  respecting  the  question  of  torture,  and  that  my 


IG6  ORIANA. 

hour  had  come.  An  aged  warrior  of  the  former  tribe 
sat  solitary,  and  taking  no  part  in  the  contest,  but 
observing  its  progress  with  extreme  attention.  He 
avoided  the  spirituous  liquors,  with  which  the  others 
were  becoming  inflamed,  as  if  reserving  himself  for 
action  in  some  critical  juncture.  I  thought  that  he 
had  heretofore  regarded  me  with  pitying  eyes,  and  I 
said  mentally,  Is  it  possible  that  heaven  will  raise  me 
up  a  friend,  among  savages  ?  I  remembered  that  he 
was  called  Arrowhamet,  and  was  respected  for 
courage  and  wisdom.  When  the  conflict  grew  vio 
lent,  he  arose  and  approached  the  Delaware  chief 
tain.  During  their  conversation,  which  was  grave 
and  earnest,  both  parties  preserved  silence.  When 
they  separated,  the  Delawares  murmured  hoarsely. 
But  their  chief  silenced  them  with  the  simple  argu 
ment, — 

"  '  Arrowhamet  is  old. — He  hath  fought  bravely. 
His  temples  are  white  as  the  snows  of  the  Allegha- 
ny. — Young  men  must  submit  to  the  warrior  who 
weareth  the  crown  of  time.' 

"  They  commenced  their  war-dance,  and  in  its 
maddening  excitement,  and  the  fumes  of  intoxication, 
merged  the  chagrin  of  their  disappointment.  It  was 
past  midnight,  ere  they  lay  down  to  sleep.  When 
all  around  was  silent,  Arrowhamet  spoke  in  a  low 
tone.  He  urged  me  to  compose  my  mind,  and  be 
at  rest,  assuring  me  that  the  danger  was  past.  It 
was  impossible  for  me  to  find  repose.  1  saw  also 
that  my  aged  guardian  slept  not.  His  eyes  were 


ORIANA.  167 

raised  upward,  as  if  contemplating  the  Maker  of  that 
majestic  arch,  where  a  few  stars  faintly  beamed. 
Can  it  be,  said  I  silently,  that  an  Indian  thinks  of 
God  ?  Ah  !  I  knew  not  then,  of  what  deep  devotion 
their  souls  were  susceptible. 

"  Judge,  with  what  fearful  consternation,  I  was 
startled  from  my  reverie,  by  hearing  Arrowhamet 
pronounce  the  name  of  Oriana !  Breathless  with 
emotion,  I  was  unable  to  reply,  and  he  proceeded, — 

"  '  Wherefore  fearest  thou  to  sleep  1 — Thou  art 
redeemed  from  death. — No  evil  shall  touch  thee. — 
Believe  what  the  old  warrior  hath  spoken,  and  rest 
in  peace.' 

"  «  Why  do  you  call  me  Oriana  V  I  inquired,  trem 
bling  with  astonishment. 

"  '  Didst  thou  think  that  the  eye  of  Arrowhamet 
was  too  dim  to  read  thy  brow? — his  heart  so  old,  as 
to  forget  the  hand  that  had  given  him  bread  V 

"  '  Am  I  then  known  to  your  companions,  also  V 
I  asked. 

"  '  No  thought  save  mine  hath  comprehended  thee. 
To  all  other  eyes,  thy  disguise  is  truth.  My  breast 
shall  be  as  the  bars  of  the  grave  to  my  secret.' 

"  '  How  have  you  obtained  this  knowledge  ?  and 
what  words  did  you  speak  about  my  having  given 
you  food?' 

'"I  knew  that  face,'  he  answered  tenderly, '  when 
the  torches  first  gleamed  upon  it,  amid  the  shouts 
of  war.  It  was  deadly  pale.  But  how  could  I  for 
get  the  face  of  her,  that  had  given  me  bread  ?  Thou 


168  ORIANA. 

sayest,  when  have  I  fed  thee  ?  So  will  the  righteous 
ask  of  their  Lord,  at  the  last  day.  Thou  writest  the 
traces  of  thy  bounty  in  the  sand.  But  the  famished 
prisoner  graveth  them  in  the  rock  for  ever.  I  was 
with  the  men  of  Colonel  Buford,  on  the  waters  of 
the  Santee  river,  when  out  of  four  hundred,  scarcely 
a  fourth  part  escaped  the  sword  of  Tarleton.  I  saw 
an  hundred  hands  of  brave  men  raised  to  implore 
mercy.  The  next  moment  they  were  stricken  off 
by  the  sabres  of  the  horsemen  who  trampled  on  their 
bodies.  But  why  tell  I  thee  tales  of  blood,  whose 
heart  is  as  tender  as  that  of  the  weaned  infant  ?  I 
have  said,  that  a  few  were  saved.  With  them,  I 
went  into  captivity.  Some  pined  away,  and  died  in 
their  sorrows.-  Seventeen  moons  have  since  looked 
upon  their  graves.  Remcmbercst  thou  an  old  Indian, 
who  once  leaned  against  a  tree,  near  thy  tent  ?  He 
leaned  there,  because  he  was  weak,  and  his  flesh 
wasted  by  famine.  He  asked  not  for  bread.  Yet 
thou  gavest  it  to  him.  And  so,  thou  remember- 
est  him  not  ? — Well ! — Thou  canst  never  forget 
the  youth  who  stood  beside  thee,  in  the  door  of  thy 
tent.  His  voice  was  like  the  flutes  of  his  own  coun 
try,  when  he  said,  Oriana.  But  how  did  I  see  him 
next?  His  beautiful  forehead  was  cold,  and  his 
noble  breast  red  with  his  own  blood.  I  saw  thee, 
also.  Thou  wert  as  one  dead.  But  I  could  not  be 
mistaken  in  the  hand  that  had  given  me  bread.  I 
determined  to  take  thee  from  my  people,  that  I  might 
feed  thee  when  thou  didst  hunger,  and  be  thy  staff 


OKI  AN  A.  169 

when  thou  wert  weary.  For  this  have  I  labored. 
My  desire  is  accomplished,  and  thou  art  safe  from 
harm.' 

"  'Was  I  then  right,  in  supposing  myself  destined 
to  the  torture  ?' 

"  *  The  chief  had  promised  that  this  night,  his  peo 
ple  should  avenge  on  thee,  their  young  men,  who 
had  been  slain  in  battle.  The  Delawares  were  bent 
upon  thy  death.  Their  eyes  were  fierce,  and  their 
brows  wrathful,  that  I  rescued  thee.  It  was  with 
difficulty,  that  thou  wert  delivered.  The  Indian  is 
taught  to  submit  to  the  hoary  head.  But  they  con 
tinually  replied, — c  Our  mightiest  have  fallen  before 
the  warriors  of  his  country.  Two  sons  of  our  Sa 
chem  were  cut  in  pieces  by  their  swords.  The  blood 
of  the  brave  cries  for  vengeance.  If  it  is  not  ap 
peased  by  the  death  of  this  man,  ere  the  rising  of 
the  dawn,  will  not  their  souls  frown  on  us  for 
ever?'" 

" '  But  how  were  you  able  to  overrule  their  pur 
pose  ?' — Hesitating  for  a  moment,  he  replied, — 

" '  The  natives  of  this  country  have  a  custom,  of 
which  thou  art  ignorant.  He  who  is  deprived  of  a 
near  relative,  in  battle,  or  by  disease,  is  permitted  to 
fill  the  void,  from  among  the  prisoners  of  war,  or 
the  victims  of  torture.  This  is  the  rite  of  adoption. 
It  is  held  sacred  among  us  all.  It  has  given  freedom 
to  the  captive,  when  the  flame  was  scorching  his 
vitals.  Without  the  force  of  this  claim,  I  could  not 
have  saved  thee.  Long  was  the  footstep  of  Death 

nearer  to  thee  than  mine.' 
P 


170  ORIANA. 

"  Pausing,  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  great  tender 
ness, — 

"  '  I  had  once  a  daughter: — An  only  one,  as  the 
apple  of  mine  eye.  But  she  faded.  She  went  down 
to  the  grave,  while  she  was  blossoming  into  woman 
hood.' 

"  There  was  long  silence.  Afterwards,  I  express 
ed  my  gratitude  to  my  deliverer. 

"  '  Daughter,  rest  in  peace.  I  watch  over  thee. 
I  Have  prayed  the  Great  Spirit,  that  I  may  lead  thee 
in  safety  to  my  home,  and  put  thy  hand  into  the 
hand  of  my  wife.  Knowest  thou,  why  she  will  love 
thee  ?— -why  the  tears  will  cover  her  face,  when  she 
lookcth  upon  thee  ?  Because  thou  wilt  remind  her 
of  the  plant  whose  growth  she  nursed,  whose  blast 
ing  she  bemoaned.  Be  not  angry  at  what  I  say. 
She  had  a  dark  brow,  and  her  garb  was  like  the 
children  of  red  men.  Yet  as  she  went  down  into 
the  dust,  there  was  upon  her  lips  a  smile,  and  in  her 
eye,  a  gentleness  even  like  thine.' 

"  He  ceased,  oppressed  with  emotion.  He  pressed 
his  hands  to  his  forehead,  and  laid  it  upon  the  earth. 
When  he  raised  his  head,  I  saw  that  his  strained 
eyes  were  bright  and  tearless. 

"  '  Acceptest  thou  my  adoption  ?'  he  asked.  c  Wilt 
thou  bow  thyself,  for  a  time,  to  be  called  the  daugh 
ter  of  old  Arrowhamet  ?  I  have  said,  that  it  need 
be  but  for  a  time.  My  home  is  near  the  shore  of 
the  great  waters.  They  shall  bear  thee  to  thy  peo 
ple,  when  thy  heart  is  sickened  at  the  rude  ways  of 
the  sons  of  the  forest.' 


ORIANA.  171 

"  I  assured  him  of  my  acceptance,  in  such  terms 
as  an  outcast  might  be  supposed  to  address  to  his 
sole  earthly  benefactor.  Apparently  gratified,  he 
raised  his  lofty  form  erect,  and  stretching  his  right 
hand  toward  heaven,  ratified  with  great  solemnity 
the  covenant  of  adoption. 

"  '  Thou,  whose  way  is  upon  the  winds, — through 
the  deep  waters, — within  the  dark  cloud, — Spirit 
of  Truth ! — before  whom  the  shades  of  our  fathers 
walk  in  fields  of  everlasting  light, — hear, — confirm, 
— bless.1 

"  He  added  a  few  words  in  his  native  language, 
with  the  deep  reverence  of  prayer,  and  then  stretch 
ing  himself  on  the  ground,  in  the  attitude  of  repose, 
said, — 

"  '  It  is  enough. — Go  to  thy  rest,  poor,  tender,  and 
broken  flower.  I  will  pray  thy  God  to  protect  thee. 
Thy  God  is  my  God.  Warriors  call  me  Arrowha- 
met,  but  in  my  home  of  peace,  my  name  is  Zachary. 
It  was  given  me,  when  I  bowed  to  the  baptism  of 
Christians.  Thou  wilt  no  longer  fear  me,  now  that 
thou  knowest  our  God  is  the  same.' 

"  Lost  in  wondering  gratitude,  I  made  my  orison 
with  many  tears,  and  sank  into  a  more  refreshing 
slumber  than  had  visited  me  since  my  captivity.  I 
awoke  not,  till  the  sun,  like  a  globe  of  gold,  was 
burnishing  the  crowns  of  the  kings  of  the  forest. 

"  During  the  remainder  of  our  journey,  nothing 
worthy  of  narration  occurred.  The  supernatural 
strength  that  had  sustained  me,  gradually  vanished, 
and  I  was  borne  many  days  in  a  litter  on  the  shoul- 


172  OKI  AN  A. 

ders  of  the  natives.  Soon  the  Delawares  separated 
from  the  Mohegans,  to  return  to  their  own  territory. 
In  passing  through  a  populous  town,  I  sold  a  valua 
ble  watch  and  necklace,  the  gifts  of  my  sainted  hus 
band,  in  the  early  and  cloudless  days  of  our  love. 
Their  avails,  like  the  cruse  of  oil,  of  her  whom  the 
prophet  saved,  have  not  yet  failed.  They  will  pro 
bably  suffice  for  my  interment. 

"  My  reception  from  good  Martha,  was  most  sooth 
ing  to  my  lone  heart.  From  that  moment  to  this, 
her  maternal  kindness  has  never  slumbered.  With 
that  tender  care,  so  dear  to  the  wounded,  solitary 
spirit,  she  has  promoted  my  comfort,  and  mitigated 
the  pains  of  my  disease. 

"  At  my  first  admission  to  this  humble  abode,  I 
cherished  the  hope  of  returning  to  England.  But  to 
what  should  I  have  returned  1  Only  to  the  graves 
of  my  parents.  With  the  disconsolate  and  eloquent 
Logan,  I  might  say, — '  There  runs  not  a  drop  of  my 
blood,  in  the  veins  of  any  living  creature.  Who  is 
there  to  mourn  for  Oriana  1 — Not  one?  Throughout 
the  whole  range  of  my  native  country,  would  there 
have  been  a  cottage  to  afford  me  shelter,  or  friends 
to  minister  to  me  night  and  day,  like  these  aged  beings  ? 
"But  with  whatever  attractions  the  land  where  I 
first  drew  breath,  would  sometimes  gleam  upon  my 
exiled  eye,  all  hope  of  again  beholding  it  has  been 
long  extinguished.  The  disease,  to  which  my  early 
youth  evinced  a  predisposition,  and  which  was  pro 
bably  inherited  from  both  my  parents,  soon  reveal- 


ORIAffA.  173 

ed  itself.  Its  progress  was  gradual,  but  constantly 
I  have  been  conscious  of  its  latent  ravages.  My  re 
treat,  which  to  most  beholders  might  have  seemed 
as  undesirable  as  obscure,  so  accorded  with  my  sub 
dued  feelings,  that  like  the  disciple  upon  the  moun 
tain  of  mystery,  I  have  often  exclaimed, — '  Master, 
it  is  good  to  be  here.5 

"  Here,  I  have  learned  to  estimate  a  race,  to  which 
the  world  has  done  immense  injustice.  Once,  I  had 
stigmatized  them  as  the  slaves  of  barbarity.  Yet 
were  they  appointed  to  exhibit  to  my  view,  in  com 
bination  with  strong  intellect,  capabilities  of  invinci 
ble  attachment  and  deathless  gratitude,  which,  how 
ever  the  civilized  world  may  scorn  in  the  cabin  of 
the  red  man,  she  does  not  often  find  in  the  palaces 
of  kings.  Here  I  have  felt  how  vain  is  that  estima 
tion  in  which  we  hold  the  shades  of  complexion  and 
gradations  of  rank — how  less  than  nothing,  the  tin 
sel  of  wealth,  and  the  pageantry  of  pomp,  when 
4  God  taketh  away  the  soul.' 

"  The  pride,  and  earthly  idolatry  of  my  heart, 
have  been  subdued  by  affliction  ;  and  affliction,  hav 
ing  had  her  perfect  work,  has  terminated  in  peace. 
Often,  during  this  process,  have  I  been  reminded  of 
that  beautiful  passage  of  Dumoulin, — l  Jesus,  in 
going  to  Jerusalem,  was  wont  to  go  through  Betha 
ny,  which  signifies,  the  house  of  grief  ':'  so  must  we 
expect  to  pass  through  tribulation,  and  through  a  vale 
of  tears,  before  we  can  enter  upon  the  peace  of  the 
heavenly  Jerusalem. 

P2 


174  ORIANA. 

"  Still,  I  quit  not  this  existence  like  the  ascetic,  for 
whom  it  has  had  no  charms.  Its  opening  was  gild 
ed  with  what  the  world  acknowledges  to  be  happi 
ness  ;  and  its  close  with  that  joy  to  which  she  is  a 
stranger.  For  your  instructions,  your  prayers,  my 
revered  friend,  receive  the  blessings  of  one,  who 
will  henceforth  have  neither  name  nor  memorial 
among  men.  Your  last  kind  office  will  be  to  lay  her 
wasted  frame  where  saints  slumber  ;  may  she  meet 
you  at  their  resurrection  in  light.  Her  parting  re 
quest  is,  that  you  would  remember  with  the  benevo 
lence  of  your  vocation,  those  who  were  to  her,  pa 
rents  without  the  bonds  of  affinity,  philanthropists 
without  hope  of  applause, — and,  though  bearing  the 
lineaments  of  a  proscribed  and  perishing  race,  will, 
I  trust,  be  admitted  to  a  bright,  inalienable  inherit  - 


Hartford,  December  14, 1833. 


175 


THE   INTEMPERATE. 


:  Reserving  woes  for  age,  their  prime  they  spend, — 

Then  wretched,  hopeless,  in  the  evil  days, 
With  sorrow  to  the  verge  of  life  they  tend, 
Griev'd  with  the  present, — of  the  past  asham'd, — 
They  live  and  are  despised ;  they  die,  nor  more  are  nam'd. 

LOWTH. 


WHERE  the  lofty  forests  of  Ohio,  towering  in  un 
shorn  majesty,  cast  a  solemn  shadow  over  the  deep 
verdure  of  beautiful  and  ample  vales,  a  small  fami 
ly  of  emigrants  were  seen  pursuing  their  solitary 
way.  They  travelled  on  foot,  but  not  with  the  as 
pect  of  mendicants,  though  care  and  suffering  were 
variably  depicted  on  their  countenances.  The  man 
walked  first,  apparently  in  an  unkind,  uncompromi 
sing  mood.  The  woman  carried  in  her  arms  an 
infant,  and  aided  the  progress  of  a  feeble  boy,  who 
seemed  sinking  with  exhaustion.  An  eye  accustom 
ed  to  scan  the  never-resting  tide  of  emigration,  might 
discern  that  these  pilgrims  were  inhabitants  of  the 
Eastern  States,  probably  retreating  from  some  spe 
cies  of  adversity,  to  one  of  those  imaginary  El  Do 
rados,  among  the  shades  of  the  far  West,  where  it 
is  fabled  that  the  evils  of  mortality  have  found  no 
place. 

James  Harwood,  the  leader  of  that  humble  group, 


176  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

who  claimed  from  him  the  charities  of  husband  and 
of  father,  halted  at  the  report  of  a  musket,  and  while 
he  entered  a  thicket,  to  discover  whence  it  proceeded, 
the  weary  and  sad-hearted  mother  sat  down  upon 
the  grass.  Bitter  were  her  reflections  during  that 
interval  of  rest  among  the  wilds  of  Ohio.  The 
pleasant  New-England  village  from  which  she  had 
just  emigrated,  and  the  peaceful  home  of  her  birth, 
rose  up  to  her  view — where,  but  a  few  years  before, 
she  had  given  her  hand  to  one,  whose  unkind  ness 
now  strewed  her  path  with  thorns.  By  constant  and 
endearing  attentions,  he  had  won  her  youthful  love, 
and  the  two  first  years  of  their  union  promised  hap 
piness.  Both  were  industrious  and  affectionate,  and 
the  smiles  of  their  infant  in  his  evening  sports  or 
slumbers,  more  than  repaid  the  labors  of  the  day. 

But  a  change  became  visible.  The  husband  grew 
inattentive  to  his  business,  and  indifferent  to  his  fire 
side.  He  permitted  debts  to  accumulate,  in  spite  of 
the  economy  of  his  wife,  and  became  morose  and 
offended  at  her  remonstrances.  She  strove  to  hide, 
even  from  her  own  heart,  the  vice  that  was  gaining 
the  ascendency  over  him,  and  redoubled  her  exer 
tions  to  render  his  home  agreeable.  But  too  fre 
quently  her  efforts  were  of  no  avail,  or  contemptu 
ously  rejected.  The  death  of  her  beloved  mother, 
and  the  birth  of  a  second  infant,  convinced  her  that 
neither  in  sorrow  nor  in  sickness  could  she  expect 
sympathy  from  him,  to  whom  she  had  given  her 
heart,  in  the  simple  faith  of  confiding  affection.  They 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  177 

became  miserably  poor,  and  the  cause  was  evident 
to  every  observer.  In  this  distress,  a  letter  was  re 
ceived  from  a  brother,  who  had  been  for  several 
years  a  resident  in  Ohio,  mentioning  that  he  was 
induced  to  remove  further  westward,  and  offering 
them  the  use  of  a  tenement  which  his  family  would 
leave  vacant,  and  a  small  portion  of  cleared  land, 
until  they  might  be  able  to  become  purchasers. 

Poor  Jane  listened  to  this  proposal  with  gratitude. 
She  thought  she  saw  in  it  the  salvation  of  her  hus 
band.  She  believed  that  if  he  were  divided  from  his 
intemperate  companions,  he  would  return  to  his 
early  habits  of  industry  and  virtue.  The  trial  of 
leaving  native  and  endeared  scenes,  from  which  she 
would  once  have  shrunk,  seemed  as  nothing  in  com 
parison  with  the  prospect  of  his  reformation  and 
returning  happiness.  Yet,  when  all  their  few  effects 
were  converted  into  the  wagon  and  horse  which 
were  to  convey  them  to  a  far  land,  and  the  scant  and 
humble  necessaries  which  were  to  sustain  them  on 
their  way  thither ;  when  she  took  leave  of  her  bro 
ther  and  sisters,  with  their  households ;  when  she 
shook  hands  with  the  friends  whom  she  had  loved 
from  her  cradle,  and  remembered  that  it  might  be  for 
the  last  time ;  and  when  the  hills  that  encircled  her 
native  village  faded  into  the  faint,  blue  outline  of  the 
horizon,  there  came  over  her  such  a  desolation  of 
spirit,  such  a  foreboding  of  evil,  as  she  had  never 
before  experienced.  She  blamed  herself  for  these 
feelings,  and  repressed  their  indulgence. 


178  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

The  journey  was  slow  and  toilsome.  The  autum 
nal  rains  and  the  state  of  the  roads  were  against 
them.  The  few  utensils  and  comforts  which  they 
carried  with  them,  were  gradually  abstracted  and 
sold.  The  object  of  this  traffic  could  not  be  doubt 
ed.  The  effects  were  but  too  visible  in  his  conduct. 
She  reasoned — she  endeavored  to  persuade  him  to  a 
different  course.  But  anger  was  the  only  result. 
When  he  was  not  too  far  stupified  to  comprehend  her 
remarks,  his  deportment  was  exceedingly  overbearing 
and  arbitrary.  He  felt  that  she  had  no  friend  to 
protect  her  from  insolence,  and  was  entirely  in  his 
own  power ;  and  she  was  compelled  to  realize  that 
it  was  a  power  without  generosity,  and  that  there  is 
no  tyranny  so  perfect  as  that  of  a  capricious  and 
alienated  husband. 

As  they  approached  the  close  of  their  distressing 
journey,  the  roads  became  worse,  and  their  horse 
utterly  failed.  He  had  been  but  scantily  provided 
for,  as  the  intemperance  of  his  owner  had  taxed  and 
impoverished  every  thing  for  his  own  support.  Jane 
wept  as  she  looked  upon  the  dying  animal,  and  re 
membered  his  laborious  and  ill-repaid  services. 

The  unfeeling  exclamation  with  which  her  husband 
abandoned  him  to  his  fate,  fell  painfully  upon  her 
heart,  adding  another  proof  of  the  extinction  of  his 
sensibilities,  in  the  loss  of  that  pitying  kindness  for 
the  animal  creation,  which  exercises  a  silent  and  sal 
utary  guardianship  over  our  higher  and  better  sym 
pathies.  They  were  now  approaching  within  a  short 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  179 

distance  of  the  termination  of  their  journey,  and  their 
directions  had  been  very  clear  and  precise.  But  his 
mind  became  so  bewildered  and  his  heart  so  perverse, 
that  he  persisted  in  choosing  by-paths  of  underwood 
and  tangled  weeds,  under  the  pretence  of  seeking  a 
shorter  route.  This  increased  and  prolonged  their 
fatigue ;  but  no  entreaty  of  his  wearied  wife  was 
regarded.  Indeed,  so  exasperated  was  he  at  her  ex 
postulations,  that  she  sought  safety  in  silence.  The 
little  boy  of  four  years  old,  whose  constitution  had 
been  feeble  from  his  infancy,  became  so  feverish  and 
distressed,  as  to  be  unable  to  proceed.  The  mother, 
after  in  vain  soliciting  aid  and  compassion  from  her 
husband,  took  him  in  her  arms,  while  the  youngest, 
whom  she  had  previously  carried,  and  who  was  un 
able  to  walk,  clung  to  her  shoulders.  Thus  burdened, 
her  progress  was  tedious  and  painful.  Still  she  was 
enabled  to  go  on ;  for  the  strength  that  nerves  a 
mother's  frame,  toiling  for  her  sick  child,  is  from 
God.  She  even  endeavored  to  press  on  more  rapidly 
than  usual,  fearing  that  if  she  fell  behind,  her  hus 
band  would  tear  the  sufferer  from  her  arms,  in  some 
paroxysm  of  his  savage  intemperance. 

Their  road  during  the  day,  though  approaching 
the  small  settlement  where  they  were  to  reside,  lay 
through  a  solitary  part  of  the  country.  The  chil 
dren  were  faint  and  hungry  ;  and  as  the  exhausted 
mother  sat  upon  the  grass,  trying  to  nurse  her  infant, 
she  drew  from  her  bosom  the  last  piece  of  bread,  and 
held  it  to  the  parched  lips  of  the  feeble  child.  But 


180  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

he  turned  away  his  head,  and  with  a  scarcely  audi 
ble  moan,  asked  for  water.  Feelingly  might  she 
sympathize  in  the  distress  of  the  poor  outcast  from 
the  tent  of  Abraham,  who  laid  her  famishing  son 
among  the  shrubs,  and  sat  down  a  good  way  off, 
saying, — "  Let  me  not  see  the  death  of  the  child." 
But  this  Christian  mother  was  not  in  the  desert,  nor 
in  despair.  She  looked  upward  to  Him  who  is  the 
refuge  of  the  forsaken,  and  the  comforter  of  those 
whose  spirits  are  cast  down. 

The  sun  was  drawing  towards  the  west,  as  the 
voice  of  James  Harwood  was  heard,  issuing  from 
the  forest,  attended  by  another  man  with  a  gun,  and 
some  birds  at  his  girdle. 

"  Wife,  will  you  get  up  now,  and  come  along  ? 
We  are  not  a  mile  from  home.  Here  is  John  Wil 
liams,  who  went  from  our  part  of  the  country,  and 
says  he  is  our  next-door  neighbor." 

Jane  received  his  hearty  welcome  with  a  thank 
ful  spirit,  and  rose  to  accompany  them.  The  kind 
neighbor  took  the  sick  boy  in  his  arms,  saying, — 

"  Harwood,  take  the  baby  from  your  wife ;  we  do 
not  let  our  women  bear  all  the  burdens,  here  in 
Ohio." 

James  was  ashamed  to  refuse,  and  reached  his 
hands  towards  the  child.  But,  accustomed  to  his 
neglect  or  unkindness,  it  hid  its  face,  crying,  in  the 
maternal  bosom. 

"  You  see  how  it  is.  She  makes  the  children  so 
cross,  that  I  never  have  any  comfort  of  them.  She 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  181 

chooses  to  carry  them  herself,  and  always  will  have 
her  own  way  in  everything." 

"You  have  come  to  a  new  settled  country,  friends," 
said  John  Williams  ;  "  but  it  is  a  good  country  to  get 
a  living  in.  Crops  of  corn  and  wheat  are  such  as 
you  never  saw  in  New-England.  Our  cattle  live 
in  clover,  and  the  cows  give  us  cream  instead  of 
milk.  There  is  plenty  of  game  to  employ  our  lei 
sure,  and  venison  and  wild  turkey  do  not  come  amiss 
now  and  then  on  a  farmer's  table.  Here  is  a  short 
cut  I  can  show  you,  though  there  is  a  fence  or  two 
to  climb.  James  Harwood,  I  shall  like  well  to  talk 
with  you  about  old  times  and  old  friends  down  east. 
But  why  don't  you  help  your  wife  over  the  fence  with 
her  baby?" 

"  So  I  would,  but  she  is  so  sulky.  She  has  not 
spoke  a  word  to  me  all  day.  I  always  say,  let  such 
folks  take  care  of  themselves  till  their  mad  fit  is 
over." 

A  cluster  of  log  cabins  now  met  their  view  through 
an  opening  in  the  forest.  They  were  pleasantly 
situated  in  the  midst  of  an  area  of  cultivated  land. 
A  fine  river,  surmounted  by  a  rustic  bridge  of  the 
trunks  of  trees,  cast  a  sparkling  line  through  the 
deep,  unchanged  autumnal  verdure. 

"  Here  we  live,"  said  their  guide,  "  a  hard-work 
ing,  contented  people.  That  is  your  house  which  has 
no  smoke  curling  up  from  the  chimney.  It  may  not 
be  quite  so  genteel  as  some  you  have  left  behind  in 
the  old  states,  but  it  is  about  as  good  as  any  in  the 
Q 


182  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

neighborhood.  I  '11  go  and  call  my  wife  to  welcome 
you ;  right  glad  will  she  be  to  see  you,  for  she  sets 
great  store  by  folks  from  New-England." 

The  inside  of  a  log  cabin,  to  those  not  habituated 
to  it,  presents  but  a  cheerless  aspect.  The  eye  needs 
time  to  accustom  itself  to  the  rude  walls  and  floors, 
the  absence  of  glass  windows,  and  doors  loosely  hung 
upon  leathern  hinges.  The  exhausted  woman  en 
tered,  and  sank  down  with  her  babe.  There  was 
no  chair  to  receive  her.  In  the  corner  of  the  room 
stood  a  rough  board  table,  and  a  low  frame  resem 
bling  a  bedstead.  Other  furniture  there  was  none. 
Glad,  kind  voices  of  her  own  sex,  recalled  her  from 
her  stupor.  Three  or  four  matrons,  and  several 
blooming  young  faces,  welcomed  her  with  smiles. 
The  warmth  of  reception  in  a  new  colony,  and  the 
substantial  services  by  which  it  is  manifested,  put  to 
shame  the  ceremonious  and  heartless  professions, 
which  in  a  more  artificial  state  of  society  are  digni 
fied  with  the  name  of  friendship. 

As  if  by  magic,  what  had  seemed  almost  a  prison, 
assumed  a  different  aspect,  under  the  ministry  of 
active  benevolence.  A  cheerful  flame  rose  from  the 
ample  fire-place ;  several  chairs  and  a  bench  for 
children  appeared ;  a  bed  with  comfortable  coverings 
concealed  the  shapelessness  of  the  bedstead,  and 
viands  to  which  they  had  long  been  strangers  were 
heaped  upon  the  board.  An  old  lady  held  the  sick 
boy  tenderly  in  her  arms,  who  seemed  to  revive  as 
he  saw  his  mother's  face  brighten  j  and  the  infant, 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  183 

after  a  draught  of  fresh  milk,  fell  into  a  sweet  and 
profound  slumber.  One  by  one  the  neighbors  de 
parted,  that  the  wearied  ones  might  have  an  oppor 
tunity  of  repose.  John  Williams,  who  was  the  last 
to  bid  good-night,  lingered  a  moment  as  he  closed 
the  door,  and  said, — 

"  Friend  Harwood,  here  is  a  fine,  gentle  cow,  feed 
ing  at  your  door ;  and  for  old  acquaintance  sake,  you 
and  your  family  are  welcome  to  the  use  of  her  for 
the  present,  or  until  you  can  make  out  better." 

When  they  were  left  alone,  Jane  poured  out  her 
gratitude  to  her  Almighty  Protector  in  a  flood  of  joy 
ful  tears.  Kindness  to  which  she  had  recently  been 
a  stranger,  fell  as  balm  of  Gilead  upon  her  wounded 
spirit. 

"  Husband,"  she  exclaimed,  in  the  fullness  of  her 
heart,  "  we  may  yet  be  happy." 

He  answered  not,  and  she  perceived  that  he  heard 
not.  He  had  thrown  himself  upon  the  bed,  and  in 
a  deep  and  stupid  sleep  was  dispelling  the  fumes  of 
intoxication. 

This  new  family  of  emigrants,  though  in  the  midst 
of  poverty,  were  sensible  of  a  degree  of  satisfaction 
to  which  they  had  long  been  strangers.  The  diffi 
culty  of  procuring  ardent  spirits  in  this  small  and 
isolated  community,  promised  to  be  the  means  of 
establishing  their  peace.  The  mother  busied  herself 
in  making  their  humble  tenement  neat  and  comfort 
able,  while  her  husband,  as  if  ambitious  to  earn  in  a 
new  residence  the  reputation  he  had  forfeited  in  the 


184  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

old,  labored  diligently  to  assist  his  neighbors  in  ga 
thering  of  their  harvest,  receiving  in  payment  such 
articles  as  were  needed  for  the  subsistence  of  his 
household.  Jane  continually  gave  thanks  in  her 
prayers  for  this  great  blessing ;  and  the  hope  she  per 
mitted  herself  to  indulge  of  his  permanent  reforma 
tion,  imparted  unwonted  cheerfulness  to  her  brow 
and  demeanor.  The  invalid  boy  seemed  also  to 
gather  healing  from  his  mother's  smiles ;  for  so  great 
was  her  power  over  him,  since  sickness  had  render 
ed  his  dependence  complete,  that  his  comfort,  and 
even  his  countenance,  were  a  faithful  reflection  of 
her  own.  Perceiving  the  degree  of  her  influence, 
she  endeavored  to  use  it,  as  every  religious  parent 
should,  for  his  spiritual  benefit.  She  supplicated  that 
the  pencil  which  was  to  write  upon  his  soul,  might 
be  guided  from  above.  She  spoke  to  him  in  the  ten- 
derest  manner  of  his  Father  in  Heaven,  and  of  His 
will  respecting  little  children.  She  pointed  out  his 
goodness  in  the  daily  gifts  that  sustain  life ;  in  the 
glorious  sun,  as  it  came  forth  rejoicing  in  the  east, 
in  the  gently-falling  rain,  the  frail  plant,  and  the  dews 
that  nourish  it.  She  reasoned  with  him  of  the 
changes  of  nature,  till  he  loved  even  the  storm,  and 
the  lofty  thunder,  because  they  came  from  God. 
She  repeated  to  him  passages  of  scripture,  with  which 
her  memory  was  stored  ;  and  sang  hymns,  until  she 
perceived  that  if  he  was  in  pain,  he  complained  not, 
if  he  might  but  hear  her  voice.  She  made  him  ac 
quainted  with  the  life  of  the  compassionate  Redeem- 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  185 

er,  and  how  he  called  young  children  to  his  arms, 
though  the  disciples  forbade  them.  And  it  seemed 
as  if  a  voice  from  heaven  urged  her  never  to  desist 
from  cherishing  this  tender  and  deep-rooted  piety ; 
because,  like  the  flower  of  grass,  he  must  soon  fade 
away.  Yet,  though  it  was  evident  that  the  seeds 
of  disease  were  in  his  system,  his  health  at  intervals 
seemed  to  be  improving,  and  the  little  household 
partook,  for  a  time,  the  blessings  of  tranquillity  and 
content. 

But  let  none  flatter  himself  that  the  dominion  of 
vice  is  suddenly  or  easily  broken.  It  may  seem  to 
relax  its  grasp,  and  to  slumber ;  but  the  victim  who 
has  long  worn  its  chain,  if  he  would  utterly  escape, 
and  triumph  at  last,  must  do  so  in  the  strength  of 
Omnipotence.  This,  James  Harwood  never  sought. 
He  had  begun  to  experience  that  prostration  of  spirits 
which  attends  the  abstraction  of  an  habitual  stimulant. 
His  resolution  to  recover  his  lost  character  was  not 
proof  against  this  physical  inconvenience.  He  de 
termined  at  all  hazards  to  gratify  his  depraved  appe 
tite.  He  laid  his  plans  deliberately,  and  with  the 
pretext  of  making  some  arrangements  about  the 
wagon,  which  had  been  left  broken  on  the  road,  de 
parted  from  his  home.  His  stay  was  protracted  be 
yond  the  appointed  limit,  nd  at  his  return,  his  sin 
was  written  on  his  brow,  in  characters  too  strong  to 
be  mistaken.  That  he  had  also  brought  with  him 
some  hoard  of  intoxicating  poison,  to  which  to  resort, 
there  remained  no  room  to  doubt.  Day  after  day 
Q2 


186  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

did  his  shrinking  household  witness  the  alternations 
of  causeless  anger  and  brutal  tyranny.  To  lay  waste 
the  comfort  of  his  wife,  seemed  to  be  his  prominent 
object.  By  constant  contradiction  and  misconstruc 
tion,  he  strove  to  distress  her,  and  then  visited  her 
sensibilities  upon  her  as  sins.  Had  she  been  more 
obtuse  by  nature,  or  more  indifferent  to  his  welfare, 
she  might  with  greater  ease  have  borne  the  cross. 
But  her  youth  was  nurtured  in  tenderness,  and  edu 
cation  had  refined  her  susceptibilities,  both  of  plea 
sure  and  pain.  She  could  not  forget  the  love  he  had 
once  manifested  for  her,  nor  prevent  the  chilling  con 
trast  from  filling  her  with  anguish.  She  could  not 
resign  the  hope  that  the  being  who  had  early  evinced 
correct  feelings  and  noble  principles  of  action,  might 
yet  be  won  back  to  that  virtue  which  had  rendered 
him  worthy  of  her  affections.  Still,  this  hope  defer 
red  was  sickness  and  sorrow  to  the  heart.  She  found 
the  necessity  of  deriving  consolation,  and  the  power 
of  endurance,  wholly  from  above.  The  tender  in 
vitation  by  the  mouth  of  a  prophet,  was  as  balm  to 
her  wounded  soul, — "As  a  woman  forsaken  and 
grieved  in  spirit,  and  as  a  wife  of  youth,  when  thou 
wast  refused,  have  I  called  thee,  saith  thy  God." 

So  faithful  was  she  in  the  discharge  of  the  difficult 
duties  that  devolved  upon  her — so  careful  not  to  ir 
ritate  her  husband  by  reproach  or  gloom— that  to  a 
casual  observer  she  might  have  appeared  to  be  con 
firming  the  doctrine  of  the  ancient  philosopher,  that 
happiness  is  in  exact  proportion  to  virtue.  Had  he 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  187 

asserted,  that  virtue  is  the  source  of  all  that  happi 
ness  which  depends  upon  ourselves,  none  could  have 
controverted  his  position.  But,  to  a  woman,  a  wife, 
a  mother,  how  small  is  the  portion  of  independent 
happiness !  She  has  woven  the  tendrils  of  her  soul 
around  many  props.  Each  revolving  year  renders 
their  support  more  necessary.  They  cannot  waver, 
or  warp,  or  break,  but  she  must  tremble  and  bleed. 

There  was  one  modification  of  her  husband's  per 
secutions  which  the  fullest  measure  of  her  piety  could 
not  enable  her  to  bear  unmoved.  This  was  unkind- 
ness  to  her  feeble  and  suffering  boy.  It  was  at  first 
commenced  as  the  surest  mode  of  distressing  her.  It 
opened  a  direct  avenue  to  her  heart-strings. — What 
began  in  perverseness  seemed  to  end  in  hatred,  as 
evil  habits  sometimes  create  perverted  principles. 
The  wasted  and  wild-eyed  invalid  shrank  from  his 
father's  glance  and  footstep,  as  from  the  approach 
of  a  foe.  More  than  once  had  he  taken  him  from 
the  little  bed  which  maternal  care  had  provided  for 
him,  and  forced  him  to  go  forth  in  the  cold  of  the 
winter  storm. 

"  I  mean  to  harden  him,"  said  he.  "  All  the 
neighbors  know  that  you  make  such  a  fool  of  him 
that  he  will  never  be  able  to  get  a  living.  For  my 
part,  I  wish  I  had  never  been  called  to  the  trial  of 
supporting  a  useless  boy,  who  pretends  to  be  sick 
only  that  he  may  be  coaxed  by  a  silly  mother." 

On  such  occasions,  it  was  in  vain  that  the  mother 
attempted  to  protect  her  child.  She  might  neither 


188  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

shelter  him  in  her  bosom,  nor  control  the  frantic  vio 
lence  of  the  father.  Harshness,  and  the  agitation 
of  fear,  deepened  a  disease  which  might  else  have 
yielded.  The  timid  boy,  in  terror  of  his  natural 
protector,  withered  away  like  a  blighted  flower.  It 
was  of  no  avail  that  friends  remonstrated  with  the 
unfeeling  parent,  or  that  hoary-headed  men  warned 
him  solemnly  of  his  sins.  Intemperance  had  destroy 
ed  his  respect  for  man,  and  his  fear  of  God. 

Spring  at  length  emerged  from  the  shades  of  that 
heavy  and  bitter  winter.  But  its  smile  brought  no 
gladness  to  the  declining  child.  Consumption  fed 
upon  his  vitals,  and  his  nights  were  restless  and  full 
of  pain. 

"  Mother,  I  wish  I  could  smell  the  violets  that  grew 
upon  the  green  bank  by  our  old,  dear  home." 

"  It  is  too  early  for  violets,  my  child.  But  the  grass 
is  beautifully  green  around  us,  and  the  birds  sing 
sweetly,  as  if  their  hearts  were  full  of  praise." 

"  In  my  dreams  last  night,  I  saw  the  clear  waters 
of  the  brook  that  ran  by  the  bottom  of  my  little  garden. 
I  wish  I  could  taste  them  once  more.  And  I  heard 
such  music,  too,  as  used  to  come  from  that  white 
church  among  the  trees,  where  every  Sunday  the 
happy  people  meet  to  worship  God." 

The  mother  saw  that  the  hectic  fever  had  been 
long  increasing,  and  knew  there  was  such  an  un 
earthly  brightness  in  his  eye,  that  she  feared  his  in 
tellect  wandered.  She  seated  herself  on  his  low  bed, 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  189 

and  bent  over  him  to  soothe  and  compose  him.  He 
lay  silent  for  some  time. 

"  Do  you  think  my  father  will  come  ?" 

Dreading  the  agonizing  agitation  which,  in  his 
paroxysms  of  coughing  and  pain,  he  evinced  at  the 
sound  of  his  father's  well-known  footstep,  she  an 
swered, — 

"  I  think  not,  love.  You  had  better  try  to  sleep." 

"  Mother,  I  wish  he  would  come.  I  do  not  feel 
afraid  now.  Perhaps  he  would  let  me  lay  my  cheek 
to  his  once  more,  as  he  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  babe 
in  my  grandmother's  arms.  I  should  be  glad  to  say 
good  bye  to  him,  before  I  go  to  my  Saviour." 

Gazing  intently  in  his  face,  she  saw  the  work  of 
the  destroyer,  in  lines  too  plain  to  be  mistaken. 

"  My  son — my  dear  son — say,  Lord  Jesus  receive 
my  spirit." 

"  Mother,"  he  replied,  with  a  sweet  smile  upon  his 
ghastly  features,  "  he  is  ready.  I  desire  to  go  to  him. 
Hold  the  baby  to  me,  that  I  may  kiss  her.  That  is 
all.  Now  sing  to  me,  and,  oh  !  wrap  me  close  in 
your  arms,  for  I  shiver  with  cold." 

He  clung  with  a  death  grasp,  to  that  bosom  which 
had  long  been  his  sole  earthly  refuge. 

"  Sing  louder,  dear  mother, — a  little  louder. — I 
cannot  hear  you." 

A  tremulous  tone,  as  of  a  broken  harp,  rose  above 
her  grief,  to  comfort  the  dying  child.  One  sigh  of 
icy  breath  was  upon  her  cheek,  as  she  joined  it  to  his 
— one  shudder — and  all  was  over.  She  held  the 


190  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

body  long  in  her  arms,  as  if  fondly  hoping  to  warm 
and  revivify  it  with  her  breath.  Then  she  stretched 
it  upon  its  bed,  and  kneeling  beside  it,  hid  her  face 
in  that  grief  which  none  but  mothers  feel.  It  was  a 
deep  and  sacred  solitude,  along  with  the  dead.  No 
thing  save  the  soft  breathing  of  the  sleeping  babe  fell 
upon  that  solemn  pause.  Then  the  silence  was  bro 
ken  by  a  wail  of  piercing  sorrow.  It  ceased,  and  a 
voice  arose, — a  voice  of  supplication  for  strength  to 
endure,  as  "  seeing  Him  who  is  invisible."  Faith 
closed  what  was  begun  in  weakness.  It  became  a 
prayer  of  thanksgiving  to  Him  who  had  released  the 
dove-like  spirit  from  the  prison-house  of  pain,  that 
it  might  taste  the  peace  and  mingle  in  the  melody  of 
heaven. 

She  arose  from  the  orison,  and  bent  calmly  over 
her  dead.  The  thin,  placid  features  wore  a  smile, 
as  when  he  had  spoken  of  Jesus.  She  composed 
the  shining  locks  around  the  pure  forehead,  and  gazed 
long  on  what  was  to  her  so  beautiful.  Tears  had 
vanished  from  her  eyes,  and  in  their  stead  was  an 
expression  almost  sublime,  as  of  one  who  had  given 
an  angel  back  to  God. 

The  father  entered  carelessly.  She  pointed  to  the 
pallid,  immovable  brow.  "  See,  he  suffers  no  long 
er."  He  drew  near,  and  looked  on  the  dead  with  sur 
prise  and  sadness.  A  few  natural  tears  forced  their 
way,  and  fell  on  the  face  of  the  first-born,  who  was 
once  his  pride.  The  memories  of  that  moment  were 
bitter.  He  spoke  tenderly  to  the  emaciated  mother ; 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  191 

and  she,  who  a  short  time  before  was  raised  above 
the  sway  of  grief,  wept  like  an  infant  as  those  few 
affectionate  tones  touched  the  sealed  fountains  of 
other  years. 

Neighbors  and  friends  visited  them,  desirous  to 
console  their  sorrow,  and  attended  them  when  they 
committed  the  body  to  the  earth.  There  was  a  shady 
and  secluded  spot,  which  they  had  consecrated  by  the 
burial  of  their  few  dead.  Thither  that  whole  little 
colony  were  gathered,  and,  seated  on  the  fresh 
springing  grass,  listened  to  the  holy,  healing  words 
of  the  inspired  volume.  It  was  read  by  the  oldest 
man  in  the  colony,  who  had  himself  often  mourned. 
As  he  bent  reverently  over  the  sacred  page,  there 
was  that  on  his  brow  which  seemed  to  say, — "  This 
has  been  my  comfort  in  my  affliction."  Silver  hairs 
thinly  covered  his  temples,  and  his  low  voice  was 
modulated  by  feeling,  as  he  read  of  the  frailty  of  man, 
withering  like  the  flower  of  grass,  before  it  groweth 
up  ;  and  of  His  majesty  in  whose  sight  "  a  thousand 
years  are  as  yesterday  when  it  is  past,  and  as  a  watch 
in  the  night."  He  selected  from  the  words  of  that 
compassionate  One,  who  "  gathereth  the  lambs  with 
his  arm,  and  carrieth  them  in  his  bosom,"  who, 
pointing  out  as  an  example  the  humility  of  little  chil 
dren,  said, — "  Except  ye  become  as  one  of  these,  ye 
cannot  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven,"  and  who  call- 
eth  all  the  weary  and  heavy-laden  to  come  unto  him, 
that  he  may  give  them  rest.  The  scene  called  forth 
sympathy,  even  from  manly  bosoms.  The  mother, 


192  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

worn  with  watching  and  weariness,  bowed  her  head 
down  to  the  clay  that  concealed  her  child.  And  it 
was  observed  with  gratitude  by  that  friendly  group, 
that  the  husband  supported  her  in  his  arms,  and  min 
gled  his  tears  with  hers. 

He  returned  from  this  funeral  in  much  mental  dis 
tress.  His  sins  were  brought  to  remembrance,  and 
reflection  was  misery.  For  many  nights,  sleep  was 
disturbed  by  visions  of  his  neglected  boy. — Some 
times  he  imagined  that  he  heard  him  coughing  from 
his  low  bed,  and  felt  constrained  to  go  to  him,  in  a 
strange  disposition  of  kindness,  but  his  limbs  were 
unable  to  obey  the  dictates  of  his  will.  Then  he 
would  see  him  pointing  with  a  thin  dead  hand,  to  the 
dark  grave,  or  beckoning  him  to  follow  to  the  unseen 
world.  Conscience  haunted  him  with  terrors,  and 
many  prayers  from  pious  hearts  arose,  that  he  might 
now  be  led  to  repentance.  The  venerable  man  who 
had  read  the  bible  at  the  burial  of  his  boy,  counselled 
and  entreated  him,  with  the  earnestness  of  a  father, 
to  yield  to  the  warning  voice  from  above,  and  to 
"  break  off  his  sins  by  righteousness,  and  his  iniqui 
ties  by  turning  unto  the  Lord." 

There  was  a  change  in  his  habits  and  conversa 
tion,  and  his  friends  trusted  it  would  be  permanent. 
She  who,  above  all  others,  was  interested  in  the  re 
sult,  spared  no  exertion  to  win  him  back  to  the  way 
of  truth,  and  to  soothe  his  heart  into  peace  with  it 
self,  and  obedience  to  his  Maker.  Yet  was  she  doom 
ed  to  witness  the  full  force  of  grief  and  of  remorse 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  193 

upon  intemperance,  only  to  see  them  utterly  over 
thrown  at  last.  The  reviving  virtue,  with  whose 
indications  she  had  solaced  herself,  and  even  given 
thanks  that  her  beloved  son  had  not  died  in  vain, 
was  transient  as  the  morning  dew.  Habits  of  indus 
try,  which  had  begun  to  spring  up,  proved  themselves 
to  be  without  root.  The  dead,  and  his  cruelty  to  the 
dead,  were  alike  forgotten.  Disaffection  to  the  chas 
tened  being,  who  against  hope  still  hoped  for  his  sal 
vation,  resumed  its  dominion.  The  friends  who  had 
alternately  reproved  and  encouraged  him,  were  con 
vinced  that  their  efforts  had  been  of  no  avail.  Intem 
perance,  "  like  the  strong  man  armed,"  took  posses 
sion  of  a  soul  that  lifted  no  cry  for  aid  to  the  Holy 
Spirit,  and  girded  on  no  weapon  to  resist  the  de 
stroyer. 

Summer  passed  away,  and  the  anniversary  of  their 
arrival  at  the  colony  returned.  It  was  to  Jane  Har- 
wood  a  period  of  sad  arid  solemn  retrospection.  The 
joys  of  early  days,  and  the  sorrows  of  maturity, 
passed  in  review  before  her,  and  while  she  wept,  she 
questioned  her  heart,  what  had  been  its  gain  from  a 
father's  discipline,  or  whether  it  had  sustained  that 
greatest  of  all  losses — the  loss  of  its  afflictions. 
'  She  was  alone  at  this  season  of  self-communion. 
The  absences  of  her  husband  had  become  more  fre 
quent  and  protracted.  A  storm,  which  feelingly 
reminded  her  of  those  which  had  often  beat  upon 
them  when  homeless  and  weary  travellers,  had  been 
raging  for  nearly  two  days.  To  this  cause  she 
R 


194  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

imputed  the  unusually  long  stay  of  her  husband. 
Through  the  third  night  of  his  absence  she  lay  sleep 
less,  listening  for  his  steps.  Sometimes  she  fancied 
she  heard  shouts  of  laughter,  for  the  mood  in  which 
he  returned  from  his  revels  was  various.  But  it  was 
only  the  shriek  of  the  tempest.  Then  she  thought 
some  ebullition  of  his  frenzied  anger  rang  in  her 
ears.  It  was  the  roar  of  the  hoarse  wind  through 
the  forest.  All  night  long  she  listened  to  these  sounds, 
and  hushed  and  sang  to  her  affrighted  babe.  Un- 
refreshed  she  arose  and  resumed  her  morning  la 
bors. 

Suddenly  her  eye  was  attracted  by  a  group  of 
neighbors,  coming  up  slowly  from  the  river.  A 
dark  and  terrible  foreboding  oppressed  her.  She  has 
tened  out  to  meet  them.  Coming  towards  her  house 
was  a  female  friend,  agitated  and  tearful,  who  pass 
ing  her  arm  around  her,  would  have  spoken. 

"  Oh,  you  come  to  bring  me  evil  tidings  !  I  pray 
you  let  me  know  the  worst." 

The  object  was  indeed  to  prepare  her  mind  for  a 
fearful  calamity.  The  body  of  her  husband  had  been 
found  drowned,  as  was  supposed,  during  the  dark 
ness  of  the  preceding  night,  in  attempting  to  cross 
the  bridge  of  logs,  which  had  been  partially  broken 
by  the  swollen  waters.  Utter  prostration  of  spirit 
came  over  the  desolate  mourner.  Her  energies  were 
broken  and  her  heart  withered.  She  had  sustained 
the  privations  of  poverty  and  emigration,  and  the 
burdens  of  unceasing  labor  and  unrequited  care,  with- 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  195 

out  murmuring.  She  had  lain  her  first-born  in  the 
grave  with  resignation,  for  faith  had  heard  her  Sa 
viour  saying, — "  Suffer  the  little  child  to  come  unto 
me."  She  had  seen  him,  in  whom  her  heart's  young 
affections  were  garnered  up,  become  a  "  persecutor 
and  injurious,"  a  prey  to  vice  the  most  disgusting 
and  destructive.  Yet  she  had  borne  up  under  all. 
One  hope  remained  with  her  as  an  "  anchor  of  the 
soul," — the  hope  that  he  might  yet  repent  and  be 
reclaimed.  She  had  persevered  in  her  complicated 
and  self-denying  duties  with  that  charity  which 
"  beareth  all  things, — believeth  all  things, — endureth 
all  things." 

But  now,  he  had  died  in  his  sin.  The  deadly 
leprosy  which  had  stolen  over  his  heart,  could  no 
more  be  "  purged  by  sacrifice  or  offering  for  ever." 
She  knew  not  that  a  single  prayer  for  mercy  had 
preceded  the  soul  on  its  passage  to  the  High  Judge's 
bar.  There  were  bitter  dregs  in  this  grief,  which  she 
had  never  before  wrung  out. 

Again  the  sad-hearted  community  assembled  in 
their  humble  cemetery.  A  funeral  in  an  infant  col 
ony  awakens  sympathies  of  an  almost  exclusive  char 
acter.  It  is  as  if  a  large  family  suffered.  One  is 
smitten  down  whom  every  eye  knew,  every  voice 
saluted.  To  bear  along  the  corpse  of  the  strong 
man,  through  the  fields  which  he  had  sown,  and  to 
cover  motionless  in  the  grave  that  arm  which  trusted 
to  have  reaped  the  ripening  harvest,  awakens  a  thrill 
deep  and  startling  in  the  breast  of  those  who  wrought 


196  THE    INTEMPERATE. 

by  his  side  during  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day. 
To  lay  the  mother  on  her  pillow  of  clay,  whose  last 
struggle  with  life  was,  perchance,  to  resign  the  hope 
of  one  more  brief  visit  to  the  land  of  her  fathers, — 
whose  heart's  last  pulsation  might  have  been  a  pray 
er  that  her  children  should  return  and  grow  up 
within  the  shadow  of  the  school-house  and  the  church 
of  God,  is  a  grief  in  which  none  save  emigrants 
may  participate.  To  consign  to  their  narrow,  note 
less  abode,  both  young  and  old,  the  infant  and  him 
of  hoary  hairs,  without  the  solemn  knell,  the  sable 
train,  the  hallowed  voice  of  the  man  of  God,  giving 
back,  in  the  name  of  his  fellow-Christians,  the  most 
precious  roses  of  their  pilgrim  path,  and  speaking 
with  divine  authority  of  Him  who  is  the  "  resurrec 
tion  and  the  life,"  adds  desolation  to  that  weeping 
with  which  man  goeth  downward  to  his  dust. 

But  with  heaviness  of  an  unspoken  and  peculiar 
nature  was  this  victim  of  vice  borne  from  the  home 
that  he  troubled,  and  laid  by  the  side  of  his  son  to 
whose  tender  years  he  had  been  an  unnatural  ene 
my.  There  was  sorrow  among  all  who  stood  around 
his  grave,  and  it  bore  features  of  that  sorrow  which 
is  without  hope. 

The  widowed  mourner  was  not  able  to  raise  her 
head  from  the  bed,  when  the  bloated  remains  of  her 
unfortunate  husband  were  committed  to  the  earth. 
Long  and  severe  sickness  ensued,  and  in  her  conva 
lescence  a  letter  was  received  from  her  brother,  in 
viting  her  and  her  child  to  an  asylum  under  his  roof 


THE    INTEMPERATE.  197 

and  appointing  a  period  to  come  and  conduct  them 
on  their  homeward  journey. 

With  her  little  daughter,  the  sole  remnant  of  her 
wrecked  heart's  wealth,  she  returned  to  her  kindred. 
It  was  with  emotions  of  deep  and  painful  gratitude 
that  she  bade  farewell  to  the  inhabitants  of  that  in 
fant  settlement,  whose  kindness  through  all  her  ad 
versities  had  never  failed.  And  when  they  remem 
bered  the  example  of  uniform  patience  and  piety 
which  she  had  exhibited,  and  the  saint-like  manner 
in  which  she  had  sustained  her  burdens,  and  cherish 
ed  their  sympathies,  they  felt  as  if  a  tutelary  spirit 
had  departed  from  among  them. 

In  the  home  of  her  brother,  she  educated  her 
daughter  in  industry,  and  that  contentment  which 
virtue  teaches.  Restored  to  those  friends  with  whom 
the  morning  of  life  had  passed,  she  shared  with  hum 
ble  cheerfulness  the  comforts  that  earth  had  yet  in 
store  for  her ;  but  in  the  cherished  sadness  of  her 
perpetual  widowhood,  in  the  bursting  sighs  of  her 
nightly  orison,  might  be  traced  a  sacred  and  deep- 
rooted  sorrow — the  memory  of  her  erring  husband, 
and  the  miseries  of  unreclaimed  intemperance. 


Hartford,  1833. 

R2 


THE    PATRIARCH. 


'Gently  on  him,  had  gentle  Nature  laid 
The  weight  of  years.— All  passions  that  disturb 
Had  past  away." — 

SOUTHEY 


SOON  after  my  entrance  upon  clerical  duties,  in 
the  state  of  North-Carolina,  I  was  informed  of  an 
isolated  settlement,  at  a  considerable  distance  from 
the  place  of  my  residence.  Its  original  elements 
were  emigrants  from  New-England ;  a  father,  and 
his  five  sons,  who,  with  their  wives  and  little  chil 
dren,  had  about  thirty  years  before  become  sojourn- 
ers  in  the  heart  of  one  of  the  deepest  Carolinian 
solitudes.  They  purchased  a  tract  of  wild,  swamp- 
encircled  land.  This  they  subjected  to  cultivation, 
and  by  unremitting  industry,  rendered  adequate  to 
their  subsistence  and  comfort.  The  sons,  and  the 
sons'  sons,  had  in  their  turn  become  the  fathers  of 
families  ;  so,  that  the  population  of  this  singular  spot 
comprised  five  generations.  They  were  described 
as  constituting  a  peaceful  and  virtuous  community, 
with  a  government  purely  patriarchal.  Secluded 
from  the  privileges  of  public  worship,  it  was  said 
that  a  sense  of  religion,  influencing  the  heart  and 
conduct,  had  been  preserved  by  statedly  assembling 


200  THE    PATRIARCH. 

on  the  sabbath,  and  reading  the  scriptures,  with  the 
Liturgy  of  the  Church  of  England.  The  pious  an 
cestor  of  the  colony,  whose  years  now  surpassed 
four-score,  had,  at  their  removal  to  this  hermitage, 
established  his  eldest  son  in  the  office  of  lay-reader. 
This  simple  ministration,  aided  by  holy  example, 
had  so  shared  the  blessing  of  heaven,  that  all  the 
members  of  this  miniature  commonwealth  held  fast 
the  faith  and  hope  of  the  gospel. 

I  was  desirous  of  visiting  this  peculiar  people,  and 
of  ascertaining  whether  such  precious  fruits  might 
derive  nutriment  from  so  simple  a  root.  A  journey 
into  that  section  of  the  country  afforded  me  an  op 
portunity.  I  resolved  to  be  the  witness  of  their  Sun 
day  devotions,  and  with  the  earliest  dawn  of  that 
consecrated  day,  I  left  the  house  of  a  friend,  where 
I  had  lodged,  and  who  furnished  the  requisite  direc 
tions  for  my  solitary  and  circuitous  route. 

The  brightness  and  heat  of  summer  began  to  glow 
oppressively,  ere  I  turned  from  the  haunts  of  men, 
and  plunged  into  the  recesses  of  the  forest.  Tow 
ering  amidst  shades  which  almost  excluded  the  light 
of  heaven,  rose  the  majestic  pines,  the  glory  and  the 
wealth  of  North-Carolina.  Some,  like  the  palms, 
those  princes  of  the  East,  reared  a  proud  column  of 
fifty  feet,  ere  the  branches  shot  forth  their  heaven 
ward  cone.  With  their  dark  verdure,  mingled  the 
pale  and  beautiful  efflorescence  of  the  wild  poplar, 
like  the  light  interlacing  of  sculpture,  in  some  an 
cient  awe-inspiring  temple,  while  thousands  of  birds 


THE    PATRIARCH.  201 

from  those  dark  cool  arches,  poured  their  anthems 
of  praise  to  the  Divine  Architect. 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  when  I  arrived 
at  the  morass,  the  bulwark  thrown  by  Nature  around 
this  little  city  of  the  desert.  Alighting,  I  led  my 
horse  over  the  rude  bridges  of  logs,  which  surmount 
ed  the  pools  and  ravines,  until  our  footing  rested 
upon  firm  earth.  Soon,  an  expanse  of  arable  land 
became  visible,  and  wreaths  of  smoke  came  lightly 
curling  through  the  trees,  as  if  to  welcome  the 
stranger.  Then,  a  cluster  of  cottages  cheered  the 
eye.  They  were  so  contiguous,  that  the  blast  of  a 
horn,  or  even  the  call  of  a  shrill  voice,  might  con 
vene  all  their  inhabitants.  To  the  central  and  the 
largest  building,  I  directed  my  steps.  Approaching 
the  open  window,  I  heard  a  distinct  manly  voice, 
pronouncing  the  solemn  invocation, — "  By  thine 
agony,  and  bloody  sweat, — by  thy  cross  and  pas 
sion, — by  thy  precious  death  and  burial, — by  thy 
glorious  resurrection  and  ascension, — and  by  the 
coming  of  the  Holy  Ghost."  The  response  arose, 
fully  and  devoutly,  in  the  deep  accents  of  manhood, 
and  the  softer  tones  of  the  mother  and  her  children. 

Standing  motionless,  that  I  might  not  disturb  the 
worshippers,  I  had  a  fair  view  of  the  lay-reader.  He 
was  a  man  of  six  feet  in  height,  muscular  and  well 
proportioned,  with  a  head  beautifully  symmetrical, 
from  whose  crown  time  had  begun  to  shred  the  lux 
uriance  of  its  raven  locks.  Unconscious  of  the  pre 
sence  of  a  stranger,  he  supposed  that  no  eye  regard- 


202  THE    PATRIARCH. 

ed  him,  save  that  of  his  God.  Kneeling  around  him, 
were  his  "brethren  according  to  the  flesh,"  a  numer 
ous  and  attentive  congregation.  At  his  right  hand 
was  the  Patriarch — tall,  somewhat  emaciated,  yet 
not  bowed  with  years,  his  white  hair  combed  smooth 
ly  over  his  temples,  and  slightly  curling  on  his  neck. 
Gathered  near  him,  were  his  children,  and  his  chil 
dren's  children.  His  blood  was  in  the  veins  of  al 
most  every  worshipper.  Mingling  with  forms  that 
evinced  the  ravages  of  time  and  toil,  were  the  bright 
locks  of  youth,  and  the  rosy  brow  of  childhood, 
bowed  low  in  supplication.  Even  the  infant,  with 
hushed  lip,  regarded  a  scene  where  was  no  wander 
ing  glance.  Involuntarily,  my  heart  said, — "  Shall 
not  this  be  a  family  in  Heaven  ?"  In  the  closing 
aspirations,  "  O  Lamb  of  God  !  that  takest  away  the 
sins  of  the  world,  have  mercy  upon  us  !" — the  voice 
of  the  Patriarch  was  heard,  with  strong  and  affect 
ing  emphasis.  After  a  pause  of  silent  devotion,  all 
arose  from  their  knees,  and  I  entered  the  circle. 

"  I  am  a  minister  of  the  gospel  of  Jesus  Christ. 
I  come  to  bless  you  in  the  name  of  the  Lord." 

The  ancient  Patriarch,  grasping  my  hand,  gazed 
on  me  with  intense  earnestness.  A  welcome,  such 
as  words  have  never  uttered,  was  written  on  his 
brow. 

"  Thirty-and-two  years,  has  my  dwelling  been  in 
this  forest.  Hitherto,  no  man  of  God  hath  visited 
us.  Praised  be  his  name,  who  hath  put  it  into  thy 
heart,  to  seek  out  these  few  sheep  in  the  wilderness. 


THE    PATRIARCH.  203 

Secluded  as  we  are,  from  the  privilege  of  worship 
ping  God  in  his  temple,  we  thus  assemble  every  Sab 
bath,  to  read  his  holy  Book,  and  to  pray  unto  him  in 
the  words  of  our  liturgy.  Thus  have  we  been  pre 
served  from  '  forgetting  the  Lord  who  bought  us, 
and  lightly  esteeming  the  Rock  of  our  Salvation.'  " 

The  exercises  of  that  day  are  indelibly  engraven 
on  my  memory.  Are  they  not  written  in  the  record 
of  the  Most  High  ?  Surely  a  blessing  entered  into 
my  own  soul,  as  I  beheld  the  faith,  and  strengthened 
the  hope  of  those  true-hearted  and  devout  disciples. 
Like  him,  whose  slumbers  at  Bethel  were  visited  by 
the  white- winged  company  of  heaven,  I  was  con 
strained  to  say, — "  Surely  the  Lord  is  in  this  place, 
and  I  knew  it  not." 

At  the  request  of  the  Patriarch,  I  administered  the 
ordinance  of  baptism.  It  was  received  with  affecting 
demonstrations  of  solemnity  and  gratitude.  The 
sacred  services  were  protracted  until  the  setting  of  the 
sun.  Still  they  seemed  reluctant  to  depart.  It  was  to 
them  a  high  and  rare  festival.  When  about  to  sepa 
rate,  the  venerable  Patriarch  introduced  me  to  all  his 
posterity.  Each  seemed  anxious  to  press  my  hand  ; 
and  even  the  children  expressed,  by  affectionate 
glances,  their  reverence  and  love  for  him  who  min 
istered  at  the  altar  of  God. 

"  The  Almighty,"  said  the  ancient  man,  "  hath 
smiled  on  these  babes,  born  in  the  desert.  I  came 
hither  with  my  sons  and  their  companions,  and  their 
blessed  mother,  who  hath  gone  to  rest.  God  hath 


204  THE   PATRIARCH. 

given  us  families  as  a  flock.  We  earn  our  bread 
with  toil  and  in  patience.  For  the  intervals  of  labor 
we  have  a  school,  where  our  little  ones  gain  the  ru 
diments  of  knowledge.  Our  only  books  of  instruc 
tion,  are  the  bible  and  prayer-book." 

At  a  signal  they  rose  and  sang,  when  about  de 
parting  to  their  separate  abodes, — "  Glory  to  God  in 
the  highest,  and  on  earth,  peace,  and  good  will  to 
wards  men."  Never,  by  the  pomp  of  measured 
melody,  was  my  spirit  so  stirred  within  me,  as  when 
that  rustic,  yet  tuneful  choir,  surrounding  the  white- 
haired  father  of  them  all,  breathed  out  in  their  forest 
sanctuary,  "  thou,  that  takest  away  the  sins  of  the 
world,  have  mercy  upon  MS." 

The  following  morning,  I  called  on  every  family, 
and  was  delighted  with  the  domestic  order,  econo 
my,  and  concord,  that  prevailed.  Careful  improve 
ment  of  time,  and  moderated  desires,  seemed  uni 
formly  to  produce  among  them,  the  fruits  of  a  blame 
less  life  and  conversation.  They  conducted  me  to 
their  school.  Its  teacher  was  a  grand-daughter  of 
the  lay-reader.  She  possessed  a  sweet  countenance, 
and  gentle  manners,  and  with  characteristic  simpli 
city,  employed  herself  at  the  spinning-wheel,  when 
not  absorbed  in  the  labors  of  instruction.  Most  of 
her  pupils  read  intelligibly,  and  replied  with  readi 
ness  to  questions  from  Scripture  History.  Writing 
and  arithmetic  were  well  exemplified  by  the  elder 
ones ;  but  those  works  of  science,  with  which  our 
libraries  are  so  lavishly  supplied,  had  not  found  their 


THE    PATRIARCH.  205 

way  to  this  retreat.  But  among  the  learners  was 
visible,  what  does  not  always  distinguish  better  en 
dowed  seminaries ;  docility,  subordination,  and  pro 
found  attention  to  every  precept  and  illustration. 
Habits  of  application  and  a  desire  for  knowledge 
were  infused  into  all.  So  trained  up  were  they  in 
industry,  that  even  the  boys,  in  the  intervals  of  their 
lessons,  were  busily  engaged  in  the  knitting  of  stock 
ings  for  winter.  To  the  simple  monitions  which  I 
addressed  to  them,  they  reverently  listened  ;  and  ere 
they  received  the  parting  blessing,  rose,  and  repeat 
ed  a  few  passages  from  the  inspired  volume,  and 
lifted  up  their  accordant  voices,  chanting,  "  blessed 
be  the  Lord  God  of  Israel,  for  he  hath  visited  and 
redeemed  his  people." 

Whatever  I  beheld  in  this  singular  spot,  served  to 
awaken  curiosity,  or  to  interest  feeling.  All  my 
inquiries  were  satisfied  with  the  utmost  frankness. 
Evidently,  there  was  nothing  which  required  conceal 
ment.  The  heartless  theories  of  fashion,  with  their 
subterfuges  and  vices,  had  not  penetrated  to  this  her 
metically  sealed  abode.  The  Patriarch,  at  his  en 
trance  upon  his  territory,  had  divided  it  into  six  equal 
portions,  reserving  one  for  himself,  and  bestowing 
another  on  each  of  his  five  sons.  As  the  children 
of  the  colony  advanced  to  maturity,  they,  with 
scarcely  an  exception,  contracted  marriages  among 
each  other,  striking  root,  like  the  branches  of  the 
banian,  around  their  parent  tree.  The  domicile  of 
every  family  was  originally  a  rude  cabin  of  logs, 
S 


206  THE    PATRIARCH. 

serving  simply  the  purpose  of  shelter.  In  front  of 
this,  a  house  of  larger  dimensions  was  commenced, 
and  so  constructed,  that  the  ancient  abode  might 
become  the  kitchen,  when  the  whole  was  completed. 
To  the  occupation  of  building  they  attended  as  they 
were  able  to  command  time  and  materials.  "  We 
keep  it,"  said  one  of  the  colonists,  for  "  handy-work, 
when  there  is  no  farming,  or  turpentine-gathering, 
or  tar-making."  Several  abodes  were  at  that  time, 
in  different  stages  of  progress,  marking  the  links  of 
gradation  between  the  rude  cottage,  and  what  they 
styled  the  "  framed  house."  When  finished,  though 
devoid  of  architectural  elegance,  they  exhibited  ca 
pabilities  of  comfort,  equal  to  the  sober  expectations 
of  a  primitive  people.  A  field  for  corn,  and  a  gar 
den  abounding  with  vegetables,  were  appendages  to 
each  habitation.  Cows  grazed  quietly  around,  and 
sheep  dotted  like  snow-flakes,  the  distant  green  pas 
tures.  The  softer  sex  participated  in  the  business 
of  horticulture,  and  when  necessary,  in  the  labors 
of  harvest,  thus  obtaining  that  vigor  and  muscular 
energy  which  distinguish  the  peasantry  of  Europe, 
from  their  effeminate  sisters  of  the  nobility  and  gen 
try.  Each  household  produced  or  manufactured 
within  its  own  domain,  most  of  the  materials  which 
were  essential  to  its  comfort ;  and  for  such  articles 
as  their  plantations  could  not  supply,  or  their  inge 
nuity  construct,  the  pitch-pine  was  their  medium  of 
purchase.  When  the  season  arrived  for  collecting 
its  hidden  treasures,  an  aperture  was  made  in  its 
bark,  and  a  box  inserted,  into  which  the  turpentine 


THE    PATRIARCH.  207 

continually  oozed.  Care  was  required  to  preserve 
this  orifice  free  from  the  induration  of  glutinous 
matter.  Thus,  it  must  be  frequently  reopened,  or 
carried  gradually  upward  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree  ; 
sometimes,  to  such  a  height,  that  a  small  knife  affix 
ed  to  the  extremity  of  a  long  pole,  is  used  for  that 
purpose.  Large  trees  sustain  several  boxes  at  the 
same  time,  though  it  is  required  that  the  continuity 
of  bark  be  preserved,  or  the  tree,  thus  shedding  its 
life-blood  at  the  will  of  man,  must  perish.  Though 
the  laborers  in  this  department  are  exceedingly  in 
dustrious  and  vigilant,  there  will  still  be  a  consider 
able  deposit  adhering  to  the  body  of  the  tree.  These 
portions,  called  "  turpentine  facings,"  are  carefully 
separated,  and  laid  in  a  cone-like  form,  until  they 
attain  the  size  of  a  formidable  rnound.  This  is 
covered  with  earth,  and  when  the  cool  season  com 
mences,  is  ignited ;  and  the  liquid  tar,  flowing  into 
a  reservoir  prepared  for  it,  readily  obtains  a  market 
among  the  dealers  in  naval  stores. 

Shall  I  be  forgiven  for  such  minuteness  of  detail  ? 
So  strongly  did  this  simple  and  interesting  people 
excite  my  affectionate  solicitude,  that  not  even  their 
slightest  concerns  seemed  unworthy  of  attention. 
By  merchants  of  the  distant  town,  who  were  in 
habits  of  traffic  with  them,  I  was  afterwards  inform 
ed  that  they  were  distinguished  for  integrity  and 
uprightness,  and  that  the  simple  affirmation  of  these 
"  Bible  and  Liturgy  men,"  as  they  were  styled,  pos 
sessed  the  sacredness  of  an  oath.  The  lay-reader 
remarked  to  me,  that  he  had  never  known  among 


208  THE    PATRIARCH. 

his  people,  a  single  instance  of  either  intemperance 
or  profanity. 

"  Our  young  men  have  no  temptations,  and  the 
old  set  an  uniformly  sober  example.  Still,  I  cannot 
but  think  our  freedom  from  vice  is  chiefly  owing  to 
a  sense  of  religious  obligation,  cherished  by  God's 
blessing  upon  our  humble  worship." 

"  Are  there  no  quarrels  or  strifes  among  you  ?" 

"For  what  should  we  contend?  We  have  no 
prospect  of  wealth,  nor  motive  of  ambition.  We 
are  too  busy  to  dispute  about  words.  Are  not  these 
the  sources  of  most  of  the  <  wars  and  fightings' 
among  mankind?  Beside,  we  are  all  of  one  blood. 
Seldom  does  any  variance  arise,  which  the  force  of 
brotherhood  may  not  quell.  Strict  obedience  is 
early  taught  in  families.  Children  who  learn  tho 
roughly  the  Bible-lesson  to  obey  and  honor  their 
parents,  are  not  apt  to  be  contentious  in  society,  or 
irreverent  to  their  Father  in  Heaven.  Laws  so 
simple  would  be  inefficient  in  a  mixed  and  turbulent 
community.  Neither  could  they  be  effectual  here, 
without  the  aid  of  that  gospel  which  speaketh  peace 
and  prayer  for  His  assistance,  who  "  turneth  the 
hearts  of  the  disobedient  to  the  wisdom  of  the  just." 

Is  it  surprising  that  I  should  take  my  leave,  with 
an  overflowing  heart,  of  the  pious  Patriarch  and  his 
posterity? — that  I  should  earnestly  desire  another 
opportunity  of  visiting  their  isolated  domain  ? 

Soon  after  this  period,  a  circumstance  took  place, 
which  they  numbered  among  the  most  interesting 
eras  of  their  history.  A  small  chapel  was  erected 


THE    PATRIARCH.  209 

in  the  village  nearest  to  their  settlement.  Though 
at  the  distance  of  many  miles,  they  anticipated  its 
completion  with  delight.  At  its  consecration  by  the 
late  Bishop  Ravenscroft,  as  many  of  the  colonists  as 
found  it  possible  to  leave  home,  determined  to  be 
present.  Few  of  the  younger  ones  had  ever  entered 
a  building  set  apart  solely  for  the  worship  of  God ; 
and  the  days  were  anxiously  counted,  until  they 
should  receive  permission  to  tread  his  courts. 

The  appointed  period  arrived.  Just  before  the 
commencement  of  the  sacred  services  of  dedication, 
a  procession  of  singular  aspect  was  seen  to  wind 
along  amid  interposing  shades.  It  consisted  of  per 
sons  of  both  sexes,  and  of  every  age,  clad  in  a  pri 
mitive  style,  and  advancing  with  solemn  order.  I 
recognized  my  hermit  friends,  and  hastened  onward 
to  meet  them.  Scarcely  could  the  ancient  Jews,  when 
from  distant  regions  they  made  pilgrimage  to  their 
glorious  hill  of  Zion,  have  testified  more  touching 
emotion,  than  these  guileless  worshippers,  in  passing 
the  threshold  of  this  humble  temple  to  Jehovah. 
When  the  sweet  tones  of  a  small  organ,  mingling 
with  the  voices  of  a  select  choir,  gave  "  glory  to  the 
Father,  to  the  Son,  and  to  the  Holy  Ghost,  as  it  was 
in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall  be,  world 
without  end,"  the  young  children  of  the  forest  start 
ed  from  their  seats  in  wondering  joy,  while  the 
changing  color,  or  quivering  lip  of  the  elders,  evin 
ced  that  the  hallowed  music  awoke  the  cherished 
echoes  of  memory. 

S2 


210  THE    PATRIARCH. 

But  with  what  breathless  attention  did  they  hang 
on  every  word  of  Bishop  Ravenscroft,  as  with  his 
own  peculiar  combination  of  zeal  and  tenderness,  he 
illustrated  the  inspired  passage  which  he  had  chosen, 
or  with  a  sudden  rush  of  strong  and  stormy  eloquence 
broke  up  the  fountains  of  the  soul !  Listening  and 
weeping,  they  gathered  up  the  manna,  which  an 
audience  satiated  with  the  bread  of  heaven,  and  pro 
digal  of  angels'  food,  might  have  suffered  to  perish. 
With  the  hoary  Patriarch,  a  throng  of  his  descend 
ants,  who  had  been  duly  prepared  for  that  holy  vow 
and  profession,  knelt  around  the  altar,  in  commem 
oration  of  their  crucified  Redeemer. 

At  the  close  of  the  communion  service,  when  about 
to  depart  to  his  home,  the  white-haired  man  drew 
near  to  the  Bishop.  Gratitude  for  the  high  privileges 
in  which  he  had  participated ;  reverence  for  the  fa 
ther  in  God,  whom  he  had  that  day  for  the  first  time 
beheld ;  conviction  that  his  aged  eyes  could  but  a 
little  longer  look  on  the  things  of  time ;  conscious 
ness  that  he  might  scarcely  expect  again  to  stand 
amid  these  his  children,  to  "  behold  the  fair  beauty 
of  the  Lord,  and  to  inquire  in  his  temple,"  over 
whelmed  his  spirit.  Pressing  the  hand  of  the  Bishop, 
and  raising  his  eyes  heavenward,  he  said, — "  Lord ! 
now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace,  for 
mine  eyes  have  seen  thy  salvation." 

Bishop  Ravenscroft  fixed  on  him  one  of  those 
piercing  glances  which  seemed  to  read  the  soul ;  and 
then  tears,  like  large  rain-drops  stood  upon  his  cheeks. 
Recovering  from  his  emotion,  he  pronounced,  with 


THE    PATRIARCH.  211 

affectionate  dignity,  the  benediction,  "  the  Lord  bless 
thee  and  keep  thee  ;  the  Lord  make  his  face  to  shine 
upon  thee,  and  be  gracious  unto  thee ;  the  Lord  lift 
up  his  countenance  upon  thee,  and  give  thee  peace." 

The  Patriarch,  bowing  down  a  head,  heavy  with 
the  snows  of  more  than  fourscore  winters,  breathed 
a  thanksgiving  to  God,  and  turned  homeward,  follow 
ed  by  all  his  kindred.  Summer  had  glided  away  ere 
it  was  in  my  power  again  to  visit  the  "  lodge  in  the 
wilderness."  As  I  was  taking  in  the  autumn  twilight 
my  lonely  walk  for  meditation,  a  boy  of  rustic  ap 
pearance,  approaching  with  hasty  steps,  accosted  rne. 

"  Our  white-haired  father,  the  father  of  us  all,  lies 
stretched  upon  his  bed.  He  takes  no  bread  or  water, 
and  he  asks  for  you.  Man  of  God,  will  you  come 
lohim?" 

Scarcely  had  I  signified  assent,  ere  he  vanished. 
With  the  light  of  the  early  morning,  I  commenced 
my  journey.  Autumn  had  infused  chillness  into  the 
atmosphere,  and  somewhat  of  tender  melancholy 
into  the  heart.  Nature  seems  to  regard  with  sadness 
the  passing  away  of  the  glories  of  summer,  and  to 
robe  herself  as  if  for  humiliation. 

As  the  sun  increased  in  power,  more  of  cheerful 
ness  overspread  the  landscape.  The  pines  were 
busily  disseminating  their  winged  seeds.  Like  in 
sects,  with  a  floating  motion,  they  spread  around  for 
miles.  Large  droves  of  swine  made  their  repast 
upon  this  half  ethereal  food.  How  mindful  is  Nature 
of  even  her  humblest  pensioners  ! 

As  I  approached  the  cluster  of  cottages,  which 
now  assumed  the  appearance  of  a  village,  the  eldest 


212  THE    PATRIARCH. 

son  advanced  to  meet  me.  His  head  declined  like 
one  struggling  with  a  grief  which  he  would  fain  sub 
due.  Taking  my  hand  in  both  of  his,  he  raised  it 
to  his  lips.  Neither  of  us  spoke  a  word.  It  was 
written  clearly  on  his  countenance,  "  Come  quickly, 
ere  he  die." 

Together  we  entered  the  apartment  of  the  good 
Patriarch.  One  glance  convinced  me  that  he  was 
not  long  to  be  of  our  company.  His  posterity  were 
gathered  around  him  in  sorrow  ; 

"  For  drooping, — sickening, — dying,  they  began, 
Whom  they  ador'd  as  God,  to  mourn  as  man." 

He  was  fearfully  emaciated,  but  as  I  spake  of  the 
Saviour,  who  "  went  not  up  to  joy,  until  he  first  suf 
fered  pain,"  his  brow  again  lighted  with  the  calm 
ness  of  one,  whose  "  way  to  eternal  joy  was  to  suf 
fer  with  Christ,  whose  door  to  eternal  life  gladly  to 
die  with  him." 

Greatly  comforted  by  prayer,  he  desired  that  the 
holy  communion  might  be  once  more  administered 
to  him,  and  his  children.  There  was  a  separation 
around  his  bed.  Those  who  had  been  accustomed 
to  partake  with  him,  drew  near,  and  knelt  around 
the  dying.  Fixing  his  eye  on  the  others,  he  said,, 
with  an  energy  of  tone  which  we  thought  had  for 
saken  him, — "Will  ye  thus  be  divided,  at  the  last 
day  ?"  A  burst  of  wailing  grief  was  the  reply. 

Never  will  that  scene  be  effaced  from  my  remem 
brance  :  the  expressive  features,  and  thrilling  re 
sponses,  of  the  Patriarch,  into  whose  expiring  body 
the  soul  returned  with  power,  that  it  might  leave  this 
last  testimony  of  faith  and  hope  to  those  whom  he 


THE    PATRIARCH.  213 

loved,  are  among  the  unfading  imagery  of  my  exist 
ence.  The  spirit  seemed  to  rekindle  more  and  more, 
in  its  last  lingerings  around  the  threshold  of  time.  In 
a  tone,  whose  clearness  and  emphasis  surprised  us, 
the  departing  saint  breathed  forth  a  blessing  on  those 
who  surrounded  him,  in  the  "  name  of  that  God, 
whose  peace  passeth  all  understanding." 

There  was  an  interval,  during  which  he  seemed 
to  slumber.  Whispers  of  hope  were  heard  around 
his  couch,  that  he  might  wake  and  be  refreshed.  At 
length,  his  eyes  slowly  unclosed.  They  were  glazed 
and  deeply  sunken  in  their  sockets.  Their  glance  was 
long  and  kind  upon  those  who  hung  over  his  pillow. 
His  lips  moved,  but  not  audibly.  Bowing  my  ear  more 
closely,  I  found  that  he  was  speaking  of  Him  who  is 
the  "  resurrection  and  the  life."  A  slight  shuddering 
passed  over  his  frame,  and  he  was  at  rest,  for  ever. 

A  voice  of  weeping  arose  from  among  the  children, 
who  had  been  summoned  to  the  bed  of  death.  Ere  I  had 
attempted  consolation,  the  lay- reader  with  an  unfalter 
ing  tone  pronounced,  "  the  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord 
hath  taken  away  :  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord." 

Deep  silence  ensued.  It  seemed  as  if  every  heart 
was  installing  him  who  spake,  in  the  place  of  the 
father  and  the  governor  who  had  departed.  It  was 
a  spontaneous  acknowledgment  of  the  right  of  pri 
mogeniture,  which  no  politician  could  condemn.  He 
stood  among  them,  in  the  simple  majesty  of  his  birth 
right,  a  ruler  and  priest  to  guide  his  people  in  the 
way  everlasting.  It  was  as  if  the  mantle  of  an  arisen 
prophet  had  descended  upon  him,  as  if  those  ashen 
lips  had  broken  the  seal  of  death  to  utter  "  behold 


214  THE    PATRIARCH. 

my  servant  whom  I  have  chosen."  Every  eye  fixed 
upon  him  its  expression  of  fealty  and  love.  Gra 
dually  the  families  retired  to  their  respective  habita 
tions.  Each  individual  paused  at  the  pillow  of  the 
Patriarch,  to  take  a  silent  farewell ;  and  some  of  the 
little  ones  climbed  up  to  kiss  the  marble  face. 

I  was  left  alone  with  the  lay-reader,  and  with  the 
dead.  The  enthusiasm  of  the  scene  had  fled,  and 
the  feelings  of  a  son  triumphed.  Past  years  rushed 
like  a  tide  over  his  memory.  The  distant,  but  un- 
dimmed  impressions  of  infancy  and  childhood, — the 
planting  of  that  once  wild  waste, — the  changes  of 
those  years  which  had  sprinkled  his  temples  with  gray 
hairs, — all,  with  their  sorrows  and  their  joys,  came 
back,  associated  with  the  lifeless  image  of  his  belov 
ed  sire.  In  the  bitterness  of  bereavement,  he  cover 
ed  his  face,  and  wept.  That  iron  frame  which  had 
borne  the  hardening  of  more  than  half  a  century, 
shook,  like  the  breast  of  an  infant,  when  it  sobs 
out  its  sorrows.  I  waited  until  the  first  shock  of 
grief  had  subsided.  Then,  passing  my  arm  gently 
within  his,  I  repeated,  "  I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven 
saying, — 4  Write,  from  henceforth,  blessed  are  the 
dead,  who  die  in  the  Lord.'  "  Instantly  raising  him 
self  upright,  he  responded  in  a  voice  whose  deep 
inflictions  sank  into  my  soul,  "  Even  so,  saith  the 
spirit,  for  they  rest  from  their  labors,  and  their  works 
do  follow  them." 

I  remained  to  attend  the  funeral  obsequies  of  the 
Patriarch.  In  the  heart  of  their  territory  was  a 
shady  dell,  sacred  to  the  dead.  It  was  surrounded 
by  a  neat  inclosure,  and  planted  with  trees.  The 


THE    PATRIARCH.  215 

drooping  branches  of  a  willow,  swept  the  grave  of 
the  mother  of  the  colony.  Near  her,  slumbered  her 
youngest  son.  Several  other  mounds  swelled  around 
them,  most  of  which,  by  their  small  size,  told  of  the 
smitten  flowers  of  infancy.  To  this  goodly  compa 
ny,  we  bore  him,  who  had  been  revered  as  the  father 
and  exemplar  of  all.  With  solemn  steps,  his  de 
scendants,  two  and  two,  followed  the  corpse.  I 
heard  a  convulsive  and  suppressed  breathing,  among 
the  more  tender  of  the  train  ;  but  when  the  burial- 
service  commenced,  all  was  hushed.  And  never 
have  I  more  fully  realized  its  surpassing  pathos  and 
power,  than  when  from  the  centre  of  that  deep  soli 
tude,  on  the  brink  of  that  waiting  grave,  it  poured 
forth  its  consolation. 

"  Man,  that  is  born  of  woman,  hath  but  a  short 
time  to  live,  and  is  full  of  misery.  He  cometh  up 
and  is  cut  down  like  a  flower.  He  fleeth  as  it  were  a 
shadow,  and  never  continueth  in  one  stay.  In  the 
midst  of  life,  we  are  in  death.  Of  whom  may  we 
seek  succor  but  of  thee,  Oh  Lord  ! — who  for  our  sins 
art  justly  displeased  ?  Yet,  O  Lord  God  most  holy 
— O  God  most  mighty, — O  holy  and  most  merciful 
Saviour,  deliver  us  not  into  the  bitter  pains  of  eternal 
death.  Thou  knowest,  Lord,  the  secrets  of  our  hearts, 
shut  not  thy  most  merciful  ears  to  our  prayers,  but 
spare  us,  O  Lord  most  holy, — O  God  most  mighty, 
— O  holy  and  merciful  Saviour, — suffer  us  not,  at  our 
last  hour,  for  any  pains  of  death  to  fall  from  thee." 

Circumstances  compelled  me  to  leave  this  mourn 
ing  community  immediately  after  committing  the 
dust  of  their  pious  ancestor  to  the  earth.  They  ac- 


216  THE    PATRIARCH. 

companied  me  to  some  distance  on  my  journey,  and 
our  parting  was  with  mutual  tears.  Turning  to 
view  them,  as  their  forms  mingled  with  the  dark 
green  of  the  forest,  I  heard  the  faint  echo  of  a  clear 
voice.  It  was  the  lay-reader,  speaking  of  the  hope 
of  the  resurrection :  "  If  we  believe  that  Christ  died 
and  rose  again,  even  so  them  also,  that  sleep  in 
Jesus,  will  God  bring  with  him." 

Full  of  thought,  I  pursued  my  homeward  way.  I 
inquired,  is  Devotion  never  encumbered,  or  impeded 
by  the  splendor  that  surrounds  her?  Amid  the 
lofty  cathedral, — the  throng  of  rich-stoled  worship 
pers, — the  melody  of  the  solemn  organ, — does  that 
incense  never  spend  itself  upon  the  earth,  that  should 
rise  to  heaven  ?  On  the  very  beauty  and  glory  of 
its  ordinances,  may  not  the  spirit  proudly  rest,  and 
go  more  forth  to  the  work  of  benevolence,  nor  spread 
its  wing  at  the  call  of  faith  ? 

Yet  surely,  there  is  a  reality  in  religion,  though 
man  may  foolishly  cheat  himself  with  the  shadow. 
Here  I  have  beheld  it  in  simplicity,  disrobed  of  "  all 
pomp  and  circumstance,"  yet  with  power  to  soothe 
the  passions  into  harmony,  to  maintain  the  virtues 
in  daily  and  vigorous  exercise,  and  to  give  victory 
to  the  soul,  when  death  vanquishes  the  body.  So, 
I  took  the  lesson  to  my  heart,  and  when  it  has  lan 
guished  or  grown  cold,  I  have  warmed  it  by  the  re 
membrance  of  the  ever-living  faith,  of  those  "  few 
sheep  in  the  wilderness." 

THE  END. 


WORKS 

RECENTLY  PUBLISHED  BY  KEY  &  BIDDLE, 
No.  23,  MINOR  STREET. 

MIRIAM,  OR  THE  POWER  OF  TRUTH. 

BY   THE  AUTHOR   OF   "INFLUENCE." 

This  tale  is  professedly  founded  on  an  "  anecdote,  said  to  be  a  well-attested 
fact,  of  an  American  Jew  converted  to  Christianity  by  the  death  of  his  only 
child,  a  beautiful  girl,  whom  he  had  reared  with  no  common  care  and  affection. 
She  embraced  the  Christian  faith  unknown  to  her  father,  until  with  her  dying 
lips  she  confessed  to  him  her  apostacy  from  Judaism,  giving  him  at  the  same 
time  a  Testament,  with  a  solemn  injunction  to  believe  in  Jesus  of  Nazareth." 

This  outline  is  ingeniously  and  skilfully  filled  up,  and  a  tale  of  deep  interest 
is  produced.  There  are  many  passages  of  deep  pathos,  and  the  argument  for 
Christianity  adapted  to  the  Jews,  is  happily  sustained.  We  think  the  pleasure 
and  instruction  which  the  book  is  calculated  to  afford,  will  well  repay  a  perusal. 
—  The  Presbyterian. 

The  style  of  writing  in  this  volume  is  simple  and  beautiful,  as  the  story  is 
affecting. — Boston  Traveller. 

The  book  has  enough  of  fiction  to  enliven  the  fancy  and  gratify  the  curiosity 
of  youth,  who  might  not  otherwise  read  it;  while  it  conveys  lessons  of  piety, 
and  arguments  for  the  man  of  understanding.  We  wish  that  many  a  lovely 
Jewess  could  be  persuaded  to  read  "  Miriam." — The  Philadelphian. 

The  work  altogether  deserves  to  stand  high  in  the  class  of  productions  to 
which  it  belongs. — Episcopal  Recorder. 

When  we  see  a  book  which  bears  the  imprint  of  Key  &.  Biddle,  we  are  always 
sure  to  see  a  handsome  one.  In  this  case,  we  can  give  as  high  praise  to  the 
matter  as  we  can  to  the  mechanical  execution. 

"  Influence"  was  one  of  the  very  best  of  that  class  of  religious  novels  lately 
so  prevalent  in  England ;  and  its  gifted  young  author  has  even  improved  upon 
herself,  in  this  affecting  and  powerful  story.  She  has  taken  that  touching  inci 
dent,  well  known  through  the  medium  of  our  tracts,  of  a  Jewish  maiden  who, 
on  her  dying  bed,  won  over  her  reluctant  father  to  the  religion  of  the  Jesus  he 
despised. 

It  was  a  subject  too  good  to  be  left  unimproved,  and  in  "Miriam"  has  been 
embalmed,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  delicate  religious  narratives  we  have 
ever  read.  No  4ne  whose  feelings- and  sympathies  are  uncorrupted,  can  peruse 
this  touching  tale,  without  feeling  a  strong  interest,  and  that  sympathy  which 
will  sometimes  melt  them  into  tears.  Upon  the  publication  of  Miriam  in  Lon 
don,  it  quickly  ran  through  three  editions,  and  we  doubt  not  it  will  attain  a 
co-extensive  popularity  here,  where  there  is  more  freshness  of  the  feelings,  and 
a  more  deeply  imbued  spirit  of  rational  piety,  to  appreciate  the  fine  tone  of  reli 
gious  spirit  which  pervades  it. — JV*.  Y.  Com.  Adv. 


AIDS  TO  MENTAL  DEVELOPMENT,  or  Hints  to  Parents. 
Being  a  System  of  Mental  and  Moral  Instruction,  exemplified  in 
Conversations  between  a  Mother  and  her  Children,  with  an  Address 
to  Mothers.  By  a  Lady  of  Philadelphia. 

A  MANUAL  ON  THE  SABBATH ;  embracing  a  consideration 
of  its  Perpetual  Obligation,  Change  of  Day,  Utility  and  Duties. 
By  John  Holmes  Agnew,  Professor  of  Languages,  Washington  Col 
lege,  Washington,  Pa.  With  an  Introductory  Essay,  by  Dr.  Miller, 
of  Princeton,  N.  J. 

COUNSELS  FROM  THE  AGED  TO  THE  YOUNG.    By 

Dr.  Alexander. 

,  _ 


WORKS    RECENTLY    PUBLISHED 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  A  FUTURE  STATE.  By  Thomas 
Dick,  author  of  the  Christian  Philosopher,  &c. 

TODD'S  JOHNSON'S  DICTIONARY  OF  THE  ENGLISH 
LANGUAGE.  To  which  is  added,  a  copious  Vocabulary  of  Greek, 
Latin,  and  Scriptural  Proper  Names,  divided  into  syllables,  and  ac 
cented  for  pronunciation.  By  Thomas  Rees,  LL.D.,  F.R.S.A.  The 
above  Dictionary  will  make  a  beautiful  pocket  volume,  same  size 
as  Young  Man's  Own  Book. 

MEMORANDA  OF  A  RESIDENCE  AT  THE  COURT  OF 
LONDON.  By  Richard  Rush,  Envoy  Extraordinary  and  Minister 
Plenipotentiary  from  the  United  States  of  America ;  from  1817  to 
1825.  Second  edition,  revised  and  enlarged. 

PAROCHIAL  LECTURES  ON  THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOS 
PEL.  By  Stephen  H.  Tyng,  D.D.,  Rector  of  St.  Paul's  Church, 
Philadelphia. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  PHILOSOPHER,  or  the  Connection  of 
Science  and  Philosophy  with  Religion.  By  Thomas  Dick. 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  RELIGION,  or  an  Illustration  of  the 
Moral  Laws  of  the  Universe.  By  Thomas  Dick. 

^  THE  IMPROVEMENT  OF  SOCIETY,  by  the  Diffusion  of 
Knowledge;  or  an  Illustration 'of  the  advantages  which  would  re 
sult  from  a  general  dissemination  of  rational  and  scientific  informa 
tion  among  all  ranks.  Illustrated  with  engravings.  By  Thomas 
Dick,  LL.D.,  author  of  Philosophy  of  a  Future  State,  &c. 

THE  PIECE  BOOK,  comprising  Choice  Specimens  of  Poetry 
and  Eloquence,  intended  to  be  transcribed  or  committed  to  memory. 

MEMOIRS  OF  HORTENSE  BEAUHARNAIS,  DUCHESS 
OF  ST.  LEU  AND  EX-QUEEN  OF  HOLLAND. 

This  is  an  interesting  account  of  a  conspicuous  character.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Josephine  Beauharnais,  alias.,  or  afterwards,  Josephine  Bonaparte, 
former  wife  of  Napoleon  of  France  ;  and  she  became  the  wife  of  Louis  Bonaparte, 
the  ex-king  of  Holland.  Of  those  who  have  figured  at  large  on  the  great  theatre 
of  life,  at  one  of  the  most  memorable  eras  in  history,  many  interesting  anec 
dotes  are  given.  We  can  safely  recommend  this  work  to  the  reading  public. — 
American  Sentinel. 

No  one  of  all  those  distinguished  personages  who  occupied  so  large  a  space  in 
the  world's  eye,  from  their  connexion  with  Napoleon,  presents  a  story  of  deeper 
interest  than  the  amiable  and  accomplished  subject  of  these  memoirs.  Possess 
ing  all  the  grace  and  fascination  of  manner,  which  so  eminently  characterized 
her  mother,  the  Empress  Josephine,  she  has  a  strength  and  cultivation  of  intel 
lect;  an  extent  and  variety  of  knowledge;  and  a  philosophic  fortitude  which 
the  Empress  never  could  boast.  Unhappy  in  her  marriage,  she  was  yet  a  de 
voted  wife  and  fond  mother;  and  though  gifted  with  every  quality  to  adorn 
royalty,  she  willingly  withdrew  to  the  shades  of  private  life,  resigning  the  crown 
she  had  embellished  without  a  murmur. 

Many  of  the  details  of  this  work  will  be  found  deeply  interesting,  and  the  notes 
are  copious  and  instructing.  The  translator  has  faithfully  preserved  the  spirit 
of  his  original. — Saturday  Courier, 

_  . 


BY    KEY     &    BIDDLE. 

HARPE'S  HEAD, 
A  LEGEND  OF  KENTUCKY. 

By  JAMES  HALL,  Esq.  author  of  Legends  of  the  West,  &c.  &c. 

It  is  an  able  production,  characteristic  of  the  writer's  eminent  talents,  and 
abounding  with  narratives  and  sketches  of  absorbing  interest.  The  history  of 
Harpe  forms  the  ground-work  of  the  tale,  the  incidents  of  which  are  developed 
with  much  skill  ajid  effect.— Philad.  Gazette. 

Harpe's  Head  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  stories  with  which  we  are  ac 
quainted. — Daily  Chronicle. 

Judge  Hall  is  among  the  most  popular  of  American  writers,  and  in  the  present 
production,  has  jjiven  another  proof  of  the  felicity  of  his  genius.  It  abounds 
with  narratives  and  sketches  of  deep  interest,  relating  to  the  early  periods  of 
the  settlement  of  Kentucky. — JV.  Y.  Com.  Adv. 

Mr.  JAMES  HALL,  a  native  of  Philadelphia,  and  favorably  known  as  the  author 
of  Legends  of  the  West,  has  just  published  a  new  work,  entitled  "HARPE'S 
HEAD,  A  Legend  of  Kentucky.''''  It  is  well  calculated  to  add  to  his  fame,  and 
though  it  bears  evidences  of  being  a  hasty  composition,  reflects  great  credit 
upon  the  author.  It  is  the  story  of  Micajah  Harpe,  a  Kentuckian  Freebooter, 
and  the  scene  changes  from  Virginia,  in  the  olden  time,  to  Ohio  and  Kentucky. 
The  account  of  a  Virginia  Barbecue  is  so  well  and  naturally  executed,  that  it 
must  become  a  favorite.  It  is  here  inserted  as  a  favorable  specimen  of  the  work. 
Miss  Pendlcton  is  altogether  lovely. — Paulson's  Daily  Adv. 

With  the  ordinary  characters  which  must  be  found  in  such  a  composition,  we 
have  one  quite  original  being,  in  the  person  of  "  Hark  Short,  the  snake-killer ;" 
and  the  production,  as  a  whole,  forms  one  of  the  most  engaging  volumes  that 
we  have  met  with.  To  its  other  merits  we  should  not  omit  to  add  that,  like 
other  writings  from  the  same  pen,  it  is  distinguished  by  an  unobtrusive  tone  of 
the  purest  moral  sentiment. — Penn.  Inquirer. 

We  cheerfully  commend  this  work  to  the  attention  of  our  readers,  assuring 
them  that  they  will  be  amused,  entertained,  and  instructed  by  its  perusal — they 
will  find  Indian  warfare, — savage  modes  of  life — the  difficulties  and  dangers 
experienced  by  the  early  pioneers  in  the  "  far,  far  west"— delineated  with  a 
master  hand,  in  language  glowing,  vivid,  and  natural. — National  Banner. 

WACOUSTA,  OR  THE  PROPHECY; 

A  TALE  OF  THE  CANADAS.    2  vols. 

This  work  is  of  a  deeply  interesting  character,  and  justly  lays  claim  to  be  of 
the  highest  cast.  We  think  it  decidedly  superior  to  any  production  of  the  kind 
which  has  recently  emanated  from  the  press.  It  abounds  with  thrilling  scenes, 
and  the  author  has  displayed  a  power  of  delineation  rarely  surpassed.— Daily  In- 
tclliffcnccr. 

We  have  read  it,  and  unhesitatingly  pronounce  it  one  of  the  most  deeply  in 
teresting  works  of  fiction  which  has  met  our  eye  for  many  a  month.  It  is  a  his 
torical  novel — the  scenes  of  which  are  laid  principally  at  Detroit  and  Mackina 
— and  some  of  the  tragic  events  which  those  places  witnessed  in  the  early  settle 
ment  of  the  country,  are  given  with  historic  accuracy — particularly  the  mas 
sacre  of  Mackina. — The  author  is  evidently  conversant  with  Indian  stratagem 
and  with  Indian  eloquence  ;  and  has  presented  us  with  specimens  of  both,  truly 
characteristic  of  the  untutored  savage.  We  would  gladly  present  our  readers 
with  an  extract  from  this  interesting  work,  did  our  limits  permit.  In  lieu  of  an 
extract,  however,  we  commend  the  work  itself  to  them. — Commercial  Herald. 

The  principal  personage  of  this  novel  is  a  savage  chief,  and  the  story  of  his 
retreat,  bearing  off  captive  the  daughter  of  the  Governor,  is  told  with  thrilling 
effect.  It  is  well  written  throughout,  and  abounds  with  interesting  scenes.— 
Com.  Adv. 


THE  YOUNG  LADY'S  SUNDAY  BOOK; 

A  Practical  Manual  of  the  Christian  Duties  of  Piety,  Benevo 
lence,  and  Self-government.    Prepared  with  particular  reference 


•WORKS    RECENTLY    PUBLISHED 

to  the  Formation  of  the  Female  Character.  By  the  author  of  "The 
Young  Man's  Own  Book."  Philadelphia.  Key  &  Biddle,  1833. 
32mo.  pp.  312. 

We  have  read  many  of  the  selections  in  this  little  volume,  and  have  met  with 
nothing  objectionable — Generally,  the  style  is  pure,  easy,  and  pleasing,  and  the 
matter  good,  well  calculated  for  the  purpose  for  which  the  work  is  intended, 
and  we  cheerfully  recommend  it  to  the  persons  for  whom  it  is  principally  design 
ed,  as  profitable  for  instruction. — Episcopal  Recorder. 

A  most  attractive  little  volume  in  its  appearance — and  in  this  age  of  sweeping 
frivolity  in  literature,  of  far  superior  excellence  in  its  contents.  Certainly  some 
such  manual  was  required  for  the  closet — when  novels  and  light  reading  of  every 
description  have  so  ruled  paramount  in  the  drawing-room.  We  can  give  it  no 
higher  praise  than  to  say  that  the  extracts  are  of  a  character  to  accomplish  all 
that  the  title-page  holds  out.— N.  Y.  Com.  Mv. 

A  collection  of  excellent  sentiments  from  approved  authors,  and  adapted  par 
ticularly  to  the  formation  of  the  female  character.  The  chapters  are  short,  and 
embrace  a  great  variety  of  subjects  of  religious  tendency,  and  altogether  the 
book  is  replete  with  instruction.  It  is  illustrated  by  two  pretty  engravings.— Pres 
byterian. 

As  the  public  feeling  now  runs,  the  publishers  of  this  little  work  have  done 
well  by  their  effort  to  keep  it  in  a  proper  channel.  The  Young  Lady's  Sunday 
Book  is  altogether  practical  in  its  character,  and  consisting,  as  it  does,  of  short 
pieces,  takes  a  wide  range  in  its  subjects. 

It  is  calculated  to  do  good,  and  we  should  be  happy  to  see  the  principles  incul 
cated  in  the  portions  we  have  read  become  the  ruling  principles  of  all.— Journal 
and  Telegraph. 

Messrs.  Key  &  Biddle  have  just  issued  a  volume  of  the  most  beautiful  kind, 
entitled  The  Voting-  Lady's  Sunday  Book.  It  is  full  of  pure,  didactic  matter,  the 
fruits  of  a  pious  and  gifted  mind ;  and  while  the  clearness  and  light  of  its  pages 
commend  them  to  the  eye,  the  truth  of  the  precepts  finds  its  way  to  the  heart. 
The  work  can  be  unhesitatingly  praised,  as  worthy  in  all  respects.  The  embel 
lishments  are  finished  and  tasteful.  "  Meditation,"  the  frontispiece,  from  the 
burin  of  Ellis,  would  add  a  grace  to  any  annual.  We  trust  Messrs.  Key  &  Biddle 
receive  a  liberal  patronage  from  the  religious  community,  for  we  know  of  no 
booksellers  in  this  country  who  issue  more  good  volumes  calculated  to  subserve 
the  immortal  interests  of  man.—P/ulad.  Gaz. 

TRANSATLANTIC  SKETCHES, 

Comprising  visits  to  the  most  interesting  scenes  in  North  America, 
and  the  West  Indies,  with  Notes  on  Negro  Slavery  and  Canadian 
Emigration.  By  Capt.  J.  E.  Alexander,  42d  Royal  Highlanders, 
F.  R.  G.  S.  M.  R.  A.  S.  &c.  author  of  Travels  in,Ava,  Persia,  &c. 

We  are  happy  to  have  the  opportunity  afforded  us  of  noticing  such  a  book  of 
travels  as  that  called  Transatlantic  Sketches.— American  Sentinel. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  and  instructive  works  that  has  appeared  for  some 
time,  has  just  been  issued  from  the  press  of  Key  &  Biddle,  entitled  Transat 
lantic  Sketches. — Penn.  Inquirer. 

We  wish  we  had  room  to  speak  of  this  volume  according  to  our  high  opinion 
of  its  merit,  and  to  make  the  reader  acquainted  with  the  style  and  spirit  of  the 
writer,  by  presenting  some  extracts.  Captain  Alexander,  as  a  narrator  of  what 
he  sees  and  hears,  has  hit  our  taste  exactly.  We  do  not  feel  like  a  reader,  but 
a  fellow-traveller — not  in  company  with  a  dull,  prosing  fellow,  but  with  a  gen 
tleman  of  life  and  spirit,  of  wit  and  learning.  Upon  the  whole,  we  commend  the 
book  to  the  public,  as  one  of  the  very  best  of  the  numerous  recent  publications 
of  travels  that  have  been  sent  forth.— Cow.  Herald. 


THE  RELIGIOUS  SOUVENIR; 

A  Christmas,  New-Year's,  and  Birth-Day  Present  for  1834. 
Edited  by  G.  T.  Bedell,  D.D.,  illustrated  with  eight  splendid  steel 
engravings. 


BIT     KEY     &     BIDDLE. 

A  volume,  too,  which  does  not  degrade  or  disgrace  the  subject— a  volume  des 
tined,  not  to  pass  away  with  the  winter-greens  that  adorn  our  Christmas  par 
lors,  but  to  maintain  a  lasting  hold  on  the  attention  of  the  Christian  community, 
at  least  so  long  as  good  taste  and  good  sense  shall  have  any  vote  in  the  selec 
tion  of  books.  We  have  read  the  volume  carefully,  and  do  not  hesitate  to  pro 
nounce  it  one  of  unusual  interest  as  well  as  solid  merit.—  U.  S.  Gazette. 

Messrs.  Key  &  Biddle  have  made  a  valuable  present  to  religious  parents, 
guardians,  and  friends,  in  this  elegant  little  volume.  Why  should  all  our  gifts 
on  these  occasions  be  worldly,  or  worse  ?  And  why  should  religious  truth  always 
shun  the  aids  of  beautiful  ornament  ?  The  embellishments  are  attractive,  well 
selected,  and  well  executed.  The  various  papers  which  compose  the  volume  are 
sCrious,  tasteful,  alluring,  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the  gospel,  in  a  word,  such 
as  we  should  have  expected  from  one  so  zealous  for  the  cause  of  Christ,  and  so 
inventive  of  happy  thoughts  as  the  Rev.  Editor.  This  annual  may  be  safely 
recommended  to  the  Christian  public. — The  Presbyterian. 

To  all,  therefore,  who  desire  intellectual  improvement,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
the  gratification  of  a  true  taste— and  to  all  who  would  make  a  really  valuable 
present  to  their  friends,  we  would  say,  in  conclusion,  go  and  procure  the  Reli 
gious  Souvenir.  It  is  not  merely  a  brilliant  little  ornament  for  the  parlor  centre- 
tajble,  but  a  book  worthy  of  a"  place  in  every  sensible  man's  library.— Cincin 
nati' Inquirer. 

The  typography,  embellishments,  and  general  appearance  of  the  work,  render 
it  fully  equal  in  these  respects  to  any  of  the  kind  published  in  our  country,  while 
its  subjects  are  far  more  suitable  for  the  contemplation  of  Christians,  than  the 
light  reading  with  which  most  of  them  are  filled. — Episcopal  Recorder. 

The  articles  are  not  only  interesting,  but  calculated  to  produce  a  beneficial 
effect  upon  the  minds  of  those  who  read  it,  therefore,  a  very  proper  work  for  the 
purpose  for  which  it  is  designed,  and  hope  it  may  meet  with  an  extensive  sale. — 

Baltimore  Republican. 

In  the  general  character  of  those  fashionable,  and  as  to  appearance,  attractive 
volumes,  the  annuals,  there  is  so  much  that  is  trashy  and  unprofitable,  that  it 
was  with  no  little  misgiving  we  looked  into  the  pages  of  one  which  is  now  be 
fore  us,  entitled  "  The  Religious  Souvenir."  The  matter  is  altogether  of  a  reli 
gious  and  moral  tendency,  not  chargeable  with  sectarian  bias,  and  such  as  the 
most  scrupulous  need  not  hesitate  to  admit  into  family  reading. — The  Friend. 

This  little  work  is  intended  to  furnish  what  was  heretofore  wanted — a  Christ 
mas  and  New-Year's  offering,  which  may  be  bestowed  and  accepted  by  the  most 
scrupulous. — Pittsburg  Gazette. 

We  are  happy  to  announce  the  tasteful  appearance  and  valuable  matter  of  the 
Religious  Souvenir  for  1834.  Dr.  Bedell  is  as  much  distinguished  for  his  belles- 
lettres  attainment,  as  for  the  profoundness  of  his  scholarship  and  the  purity  of 
his  motives.  He  has  found  himself  at  home  in  this  tasteful  enterprise,  and  in 
good  company  with  the  associated  talent  of  the  contributors  to  his  beautiful 
pages. — JV.  Y.  Weekly  Messenger. 

Messrs.  Key  &  Biddle  have  published  a  handsome  little  volume,  entitled  Reli 
gious  Souvenir,  and  edited  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bedell.  It  is  embellished  with  beau 
tiful  engravings,  and  printed  with  elegance.  The  literary  contents  are  very 
good,  soundly  pious,  and  free  of  all  invidious  remark  or  allusion.  True  Chris 
tianity  is  that  which  purifies  the  heart,  liberalizes  the  feelings,  and  amends  the 
conduct. — National  Oazelte. 

We  are  free  to  confess  our  admiration  of  this  lovely  volume.  It  is  decidedly 
the  gem  of  the  year.  Not  only  unquestionably  superior  in  elegance  and  execu 
tion  to  all  others  of  its  class  published  in  this  country,  but  worthy  in  the  fine 
and  careful  finish  of  the  admirable  engravings,  to  rank  along  with  the  best  of 
those  annually  produced  by  the  finished  artists  and  abounding  capital  of  Eng 
land.  We  hope  an  unprecedented  patronage  will  remunerate  the  spirited  pub 
lishers  for  producing,  at  such  a  liberal  expense,  a  work  not  less  creditable  to 
themselves  than  to  the  state  of  art  in  the  country.— JV.  F.  Com.  Adv. 

We  hail  with  pleasure  the  second  appearance  of  this  judicious  instructive  an 
nual,  with  its  exterior  much  improved,  and  its  interior  rich  in  lessons  of  piety. 
Its  aim  is  hallowed— its  usefulness  unquestionable — and  it  is  a  gift  which  affec 
tion  may  offer  without  scruple,  because  approved  by  religion. — Charleston  Cour. 


•WORKS    RECENTLY    PUBLISHED 

LETTERS  TO  AN  ANXIOUS  INQUIRER, 
Designed  to  relieve  the  difficulties  of  a  Friend,  under  Serious  Impressions. 

BY  T.  CARLTON  HENRY,  D.  D. 

Late  Pastor  of  the  Second  Presbyterian  Church,  Charleston,  S.  C. 
With  an  Introductory  Essay,  (in  which  is  presented  Dr.  Henry's 
Preface  to  his  Letters,  and  his  Life,  by  a  friend.)   By  G.  T.  Bedell, 
D.D.,  Rector  of  St.  Andrew's  Church,  Philadelphia. 

It  is  an  important  volume,  and  is  an  indispensable  auxiliary  to  a  proper  con 
templation  of  the  most  important  of  all  subjects.  The  work  contains  a  very 
judicious  Introductory  Essay,  from  the  pen  of  the  Rev.  G.  T.  Bedell,  Rector  of 
St.  Andrew's  Church,  in  this  city.— Sat.  Eve.  Post. 

In  a  revival  of  religion  among  his  own  people,  Dr.  Bedell  found  this  work  use 
ful,  and  was  led  to  seek  its  republicalion  in  a  cheap  and  neat  form,  for  the  advan 
tage  of  those  who  cannot  afford  to  purchase  costly  volumes.  We  hope  the  work 
may  prove  a  blessing  to  all  who  shall  read  it. — The  Philadelphian. 

These  letters  have  been  for  many  years  highly  valued  for  the  practical  and 
appropriate  instruction  for  which  they  are  principally  designed. — Presbyterian. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE,  AND  OTHER  TALES. 

By  JAMES  HALL,  Esq.  author  of  "  Legends  of  the  West,  &c. 

CONTENTS. — 1.  The  Soldier's  Bride ; — 2.  Cousin  Lucy  and  the 
Village  Teacher ;— 3.  Empty  Pockets ; — 4.  The  Captain's  Lady  ;— 
5.  The  Philadelphia  Dun;— 6.  The  Bearer  of  Dispatches ;— 7.  The 
Village  Musician; — 8.  Fashionable  Watering-Places; — 9.  The 
Useful  Man;— 10.  The  Dentist;— 11.  The  Bachelor's  Elysium ;— 
12.  PeteFeatherton;— 13.  The  Billiard  Table. 

We  have  just  risen  from  the  perusal  of  the  Soldier's  Bride.  The  impression  it 
leaves  upon  the  mind  is  like  that  which  we  receive  from  the  sight  of  a  landscape 
of  rural  beauty  and  repose — or  from  the  sound  of  rich  and  sweet  melody.  Every 
part  of  this  delightful  tale  is  redolent  of  moral  and  natural  loveliness.  The 
writer  belongs  to  the  same  class  with  Irving  and  Paulding;  and  as  in  his  de 
scriptions,  characters,  and  incidents,  he  never  loses  sight  of  the  true  and  legiti 
mate  purpose  of  fiction,  the  elevation  of  the  taste  and  moral  character  of  his 
readers,  he  will  contribute  his  full  share  to  the  creation  of  sound  and  healthful 
literature.—  U.  S.  Oazette. 

Key  &  Biddle  have  recently  published  another  series  of  Tales— the  Soldier's 
Bride,  &c.  by  James  Hall.  The  approbation  everywhere  elicited  by  Judge  Hall's 
Legends  of  the  West,  has  secured  a  favorable  reception  for  the  present  volume ; 
and  its  varied  and  highly  spirited  contents,  consisting  of  thirteen  tales,  will  be 
found  no  less  meritorious  than  his  previous  labors. — National  Oazette. 

We  have  found  much  to  admire  in  the  perusal  of  this  interesting  work.  It 
abounds  in  correct  delineation  of  character,  and  although  in  some  of  his  tales, 
the  author's  style  is  familiar,  yet  he  has  not  sacrificed  to  levity  the  dignity  of 
his  pen,  nor  tarnished  his  character  as  a  chaste  and  classical  writer.  At  the 
present  day,  when  the  literary  world  is  flooded  with  fustian  and  insipidity,  and 
the  public  taste  attempted  to  be  vitiated  by  the  weak  and  effeminate  productions 
of  those  whose  minds  are  as  incapable  of  imagining  the  lofty  and  generous  feel 
ings  they  would  pourtray,  as  their  hearts  are  of  exercising  them,  it  is  peculiarly 
gratifying  to  receive  a  work,  from  the  pages  of  which  the  eye  may  cater  with 
satisfaction,  and  the  mind  feast  with  avidity  and  benefit.— Pittsburg  Mercury. 

TALES  OF  ROMANCE,  FIRST  SERIES. 

This  is  not  only  an  uncommonly  neat  edition,  but  a  very  entertaining  book ; 
how  could  it  be  otherwise,  when  such  an  array  of  authors  as  the  following  is 
presented— 

The  work  contains  Ali's  Bride,  a  tale  from  the  Persian,  by  Thomas  Moore,  in- 

6  ~~ 


BY    KEY    &    BIDDLE. 

terspersed  with  poetry.  The  Last  of  the  Line,  by  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,  an  author  who 
sustains  a  reputation  which  every  succeeding  production  greatly  enhances.  The 
Wire  Merchant's  Story,  by  the  author  of  the  King's  Own.  The  Procrastinator, 
by  T.  Crofton  Croker.  The  Spanish  Beadsman.  The  Legend  of  Rose  Rocke,  by 

the  author  of  Stories  of  Waterloo.    Barbara  S ,  by  Charles  Lamb.    A 

Story  of  the  Heart.  The  Vacant  Chair,  by  J.  M.  Wilson  ;  and  the  Queen  of  the 
Meadows,  by  Miss  Mitford. 

This  volume  has  no  pretensions  to  the  inculcation  of  mawkish  sensibility. 
We  have  read  every  word  of  it,  and  can  confidently  recommend  it  to  our  friends. 
— Journal  of  Belles  Lettres. 

ZOE,  OR  THE  SICILIAN  SAYDA. 

As  an  historical  romance,  embellished  with  the  creations  of  a  lively  imagina 
tion,  and  adorned  with  the  beauties  of  a  classic  mind,  this  production  will  take 
a  high  rank,  and  although  not  so  much  lauded  as  a  Cooper  or  an  Irving,  he  may 
be  assured  that  by  a  continuance  of  his  efforts,  he  will  secure  the  approbation 
of  his  countrymen,  and  the  reward  of  a  wide-spread  fame.— Daily  Intelligencer. 

We  do  not  call  attention  to  this  on  account  of  any  previous  reputation  of  its 
author;  it  possesses  intrinsic  merit,  and  will  obtain  favor  because  it  merits  it. 
It  is  historical,  and  the  name  and  circumstances  are  to  be  found  in  the  records 
of.  those  times.  The. plot  is  ably  conceived,  the  characters  are  vividly,  and  some 
are  fearfully  drawn. — Boston  American  Traveller. 

THE  TESTIMONY  OF  NATURE  AND  REVELATION  TO 
THE  BEING,  PERFECTIONS,  AND  GOVERNMENT  OF 
GOD.  By  the  Rev.  Henry  Fergus,  Dunfermline,  author  of  the 
History  of  the  United  States  of  America,  till  the  termination  of 
the  War  of  Independence,  in  Lardner's  Cyclopedia. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Fergus's  Testimony  of  Nature  and  Revelation  to  the  Being, 
Perfection,  and  Government  of  God,  is  an  attempt  to  do  in  one  volume  what  the 
Bridgewater  Treatises  are  to  do  in  eight.  We  wish  one-eighth  of  the  reward 
only  may  make  its  way  to  Dunfermline.  Mr.  Fergus's  Treatise  goes  over  the 
whole  ground  with  fervor  and  ability ;  it  is  an  excellent  volume,  and  may  be 
had  for  somewhere  about  about  half  the  price  of  one  Bridgewater  octavo.— Lon 
don  Spectator. 

A  work  of  great  research  and  great  talent.— Evangelical  Magazine. 

A  very  seasonable  and  valuable  work.  Its  philosophy  is  unimpeachable,  and 
its  theology  pure  and  elevated.— JVew  Monthly  Mag. 

This  is  an  elegant  and  enlighted  work,  of  a  pious  and  highly  gifted  man. — 
Metropolitan  Magazine. 

This  excellent  work  contains,  in  a  brief  space,  all  that  is  likely  to  be  useful  in 
the  Bridgewater  Treatises,  and  displays  infinitely  more  of  original  thought  and 
patient  research,  than  the  two  volumes  which  have  been  recently  published  by 
the  managers  of  his  lordship's  legacy.  We  have  never  seen  any  work  in  which 
the  necessity  of  a  revelation  was  more  clearly  demonstrated,  while  at  the  same 
time  its  due  importance  was  assigned  to  natural  religion. 

We  hope  that  the  work  will  be  extensively  used  in  the  education  of  youth ;  it 
is  admirably  calculated  to  stimulate  students  to  scientific  research,  and  the  ob 
servation  of  Nature  ;  it  suggests  subjects  of  contemplation,  by  which  the  mind 
must  be  both  delighted  and  instructed  ;  and,  finally,  it  teaches  the  most  sublime 
of  all  lessons,  admiration  of  the  power,  delight  in  the  wisdom,  and  gratitude  for 
the  love  of  our  Creator. — Athen&um. 

LETTERS  FROM  THE~NORTH  OF  EUROPE, 

Or  Journal  of  Travels  in  Holland,  Denmark,  Norway,  Sweden, 
Finland,  Russia,  Prussia,  and  Saxony.  By  Charles  B.  Elliott,  Esq. 

This  is  one  of  those  remarkably  pleasant  tours  which  an  intelligent  gentle- 
man,  who  has  seen  much  of  the  world,  is  alone  calculated  to  write— one  of  those 
productions  which  engage  the  attention  and  do  not  fatigue  it,  and  which  we 
read  from  first  to  last  with  the  agreeable  sensation,  that  we  are  gathering  the 
information  of  very  extensive  travel  easily,  by  our  own  fireside. — London  Lite 
rary  Gazette. 


"WORKS    RECENTLY    PUBLISHED 

YOUNG  MAN'S  OWN  BOOK. 

A  Manual  of  Politeness,  Intellectual  Improvement,  and  Moral 
Deportment,  calculated  to  form  the  character  on  a  solid  basis,  and 
to  insure  respectability  and  success  in  life. 

Its  contents  are  made  up  of  brief  and  well  written  essays  upon  subjects  very 
judiciously  selected,  and  will  prove  a  useful  and  valuable  work  to  those  who 
give  it  a  careful  reading,  and  make  proper  use  of  those  hints  which  the  author 
throws  out. — Boston  Trav. 

We  cheerfully  recommend  a  perusal  of  the  Young  Man's  Own  Book  to  all  our 
young  friends,  for  we  are  convinced  that  if  they  read  it  faithfully,  they  will  find 
themselves  both  wiser  and  better. — The  Young  Man's  Advocate. 

In  the  Young  Man's  Own  Book,  much  sound  advice  upon  a  variety  of  im 
portant  subjects  is  administered,  and  a  large  number  of  rules  are  laid  down  for 
the  regulation  of  conduct,  the  practice  of  which  cannot  fail  to  insure  respecta 
bility. — Saturday  Courier. 

JOURNAL  OF  A  NOBLEMAN; 
Being  a  Narrative  of  his  residence  at  Vienna,  during  Congress. 

The  author  is  quite  spirited  in  his  remarks  on  occurrences,  and  his  sketches  of 
character  are  picturesque  and  amusing.  We  commend  this  volume  to  our  read 
ers  as  a  very  entertaining  production. — Daily  Intel. 

We  presume  no  one  could  take  up  this  little  volume  and  dip  into  it,  without 
feeling  regret  at  being  obliged  by  any  cause  to  put  it  down  before  it  was  read. 
The  style  is  fine,  as  are  the  descriptions,  the  persons  introduced,  together  with 
the  anecdotes,  and  in  general,  the  entire  sketching  is  by  the  hand  of  a  master. 
Everything  appears  natural — there  is  no  affectation  of  learning — no  overstrain 
ing — no  departure  from  what  one  would  expect  to  see  and  hear — all  is  easy — all 
graceful.— Com.  Herald. 

YOUNG  LADY'S  OWN  BOOK, 

A  Manual  of  Intellectual  Improvement  and  Moral  Deportment. 
By  the  author  of  the  Young  Man's  Own  Book. 

Messrs.  Key  &  Biddle,  of  this  city,  have  published  a  very  neat  little  volume, 
entitled  The  Young  Lady's  Own  Book.  Its  contents  are  well  adapted  to  its  use 
ful  purpose. — National  Gazette. 

The  Young  Lady's  Own  Book  seems  to  us  to  have  been  carefully  prepared,  to 
comprehend  much  and  various  instruction  of  a  practical  character,  and  to  corre 
spond  in  its  contents  with  its  title. — Young  Man's  Advocate. 

The  Young  Lady's  Own  Book,  embellished  with  beautiful  engravings,  should 
be  in  the  hands  of  every  young  female. — Inquirer. 

All  the  articles  in  the  Young  Lady's  Own  Book  are  of  a  useful  and  interesting 
character.— JV.  Y.  Com.  Adv. 


AN  ADDRESS  TO  THE  YOUNG,  ON  THE  IMPORT 
ANCE  OF  RELIGION.  By  John  Foster,  author  of  Essays  on 
Decision  of  Character,  &c. 

We  are  not  going  to  hold  a  rush  light  up  to  a  book  of  John  Foster's,  but  only 
mean  to  tell  what  is  its  intent.  It  is  an  awakening  appeal  to  youth  of  the  re 
fined  and  educated  sort,  upon  the  subject  of  their  personal  religion.  There  can 
be  no  doubt  as  to  its  currency. — The  Presbyterian. 

A  MOTHER'S  FIRST  THOUGHTS.  By  the  author  of  "  Faith's 
Telescope." 

This  is  a  brief  miniature,  from  an  Edinburgh  edition.  Its  aim  is  to  furnish 
Religious  Meditations,  Prayers,  and  Devotional  Poetry  for  pious  mothers.  It  is 
most  highly  commended  in  the  Edinburgh  Presbyterian  Review,  and  in  the 
Christian  Advocate.  The  author,  who  is  a  lady  of  Scotland,  unites  a  deep  know 
ledge  of  sound  theology,  with  no  ordinary  talent  for  sacred  poetry. — Presbyterian. 


BY    KEY     &     BIDDLE. 

EXAMPLE;  OR,  FAMILY  SCENES. 

This  is  one  of  those  useful  and  truly  moral  publications  which  can  not  fail  to 
be  read  with  delight  by  the  youth  of  both  sexes,  who,  as  their  hearts  expand, 
and  they  advance  in  years,  have  need  of  some  instructor  to  point  out  the  path 
they  should  follow  for  their  future  happiness.  The  author  has  been  triumphantly 
successful  in  attaining  these  laudable  objects  in  this  interesting  publication. — 
Weekly  Times. 

Some  of  the  '  Scenes'  are  sweetly  touching,  and,  in  our  view,  the  author  has 
succeeded  remarkably  well  in  presenting  the  sublime  and  yet  simple  truths  of 
Evangelical  Religion  to  the  mind  in  a  way  of  deep  and  abiding  impressions. — 
JV.  Y.  Com.  Adv. 

True  religion  is  diffusive  in  its  character,  and  when  it  is  fairly  exemplified  in 
the  life  of  an  individual,  it  will  excite  attention,  command  respect,  and  perhaps 
lead  to  still  happier  results.  '  Let  your  light  so  shine  before  men  that  they  may 
see  your  good  works,  and  glorify  your  Father  which  is  in  heaven,'  is  a  command 
of  high  authority,  and  one  which  presupposes  the  force  of  example.  These 
'  Family  Scenes,'  which  belong  to  the  same  class  witli  Mrs.  Sherwood's  writings, 
are  intended  to  illustrate  the  influence  of  example.  The  book  is  pleasingly  writ 
ten,  and  is  characterized  by  a  vein  of  pious  and  evangelical  sentiment. — Presby 
terian. 


A  HARMONY  OF  THE  FOUR  GOSPELS, 

Founded  on  the  Arrangement  of  the  Harmonia  Evangelica,  by 
the  Rev.  Edward  Greswell.  With  the  Practical  Reflections  of  Dr. 
Doddridge.  Designed  for  the  use  of  Families  and  Schools,  and  for 
Private  Edification.  By  the  Rev.  E.  Bickersteth,  Rector  of  Wolton, 
Herts. 

A  beautiful  duodecimo  of  about  four  hundred  pages;  and  one  of  the  best 
books  which  has  appeared  for  many  years,  with  respect  to  personal  and  domestic 
edification.  It  is  next  to  impossible  to  read  the  ordinary  Harmonies.  The  cur 
rent  of  the  narrative  is  broken  by  constant  interruptions.  In  this,  we  have  in 
convenient  sections,  the  four  Gospel  histories,  made  up  into  one,  in  proper  order, 
in  the  words  of  the  common  English  translation.  The  devotional  notes  of 
Doddridge  are  better  than  any  we  have  seen  for  reading  in  the  closet,  or  at  family 
worship.  The  name  of  Bickersteth,  prefixed  to  a  book,  is  enough  to  show  that 
it  is  written  simply  to  serve  the  cause  of  Christ. — The  Presbyterian. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  LIFE. 

A  Poem,  pronounced  before  the  Franklin  Society  of  Brown  Uni 
versity,  Sept.  3,  1833.  With  other  Poems.  By  Willis  Gaylord 
Clark,  Esq. 

We  hope  Mr.  Clark  may  find  sufficient  inducements  to  place  before  the  public, 
in  a  more  accessible  form  than  that  in  which  they  are  now  scattered  through 
the  periodicals  of  the  day,  more  of  the  creations  of  his  fancy,  breathing  as  they 
do  the  fervor  of  moral  purity,  as  well  as  chastened  arid  beautiful  poetry — we  do 
not  hesitate  to  say  they  will  be  most  highly  acceptable.  The  anonymous  pro 
ductions  of  his  pen  have  long  attracted  the  highest  praise,  and  it  is  high  time 
that  he  should,  in  his  own  person,  reap  the  laurels  he  has  so  well  earned,  and 
boldly  challenge  a  rank  among  the  best  of  the  American  poets. — N.  Y.  Mirror. 

The  "  Spirit  of  Life"  is  a  clustering  of  many  of  those  beauties,  which  all,  who 
admire  poetry,  have  already  seen  and  applauded  in  the  different  productions  of 
Clark's  gifted  mind.—  U.  S.  Oaz. 

This  poetry  is  of  no  common  order.  The  author  beautifully  describes  the  Spirit 
of  Life  as  pervading  all  Nature,  and  triumphing  over  the  power  of  death. — 
Episcopal  Recorder. 

The  "  Spirit  of  Life"  is  an  essay  of  sound  morality,  in  the  guise  of  smooth 
and  easy  versification.  It  aims  by  graceful  numbers  to  better  the  heart ;  to  teach 
it  contentment  here  below. — Paulson's  Daily  Adv. 

9 


WORKS    RECENTLY    PUBLISHED 

THE  HAPPINESS  OF  THE  BLESSED, 
Considered  as  to  the  particulars  of  their  state ;  their  recognition 
of  each  other  in  that  state ;  and  its  difference  of  degrees.  To  which 
are  added,  Musings  on  the  Church  and  her  Services.     By  Richard 
Mant,  D.  D.  M.  R.  I.  A.  Lord  Bishop  of  Down  and  Connor. 

The  design  of  the  Rev.  author  in  this  production,  is  to  adduce  from  scriptural 
authority,  the  most  satisfactory  evidence  of  the  happiness  and  joy  of  those  who 
by  faith  follow  Christ,  and  who,  in  the  exercise  of  those  virtues  required  by  the 
gospel,  are  emphatically  denominated  the  children  of  God.  The  author  has 
touched  upon  several  topics  connected  with  the  subject,  which  must  afford  much 
consolation  to  the  Christian,  who,  from  the  very  nature  of  his  organization,  is 
liable  to  doubts  and  fearful  forebodings  as  to  the  state  of  his  heart  and  the 
grounds  of  his  faith. 

Christian  hope,  confidence,  and  charity,  are  stamped  upon  every  page,  and  the 
writer  deserves  well  of  the  Christian  inquirer,  for  the  industry  which  he  has  dis 
played  in  collecting  and  arranging  so  many  important  and  valuable  arguments 
in  favor  of  the  glorious  and  resplendent  state  of  the  faithful  and  humble  disciple 
of  Jesus. 

In  this  world,  mankind  have  need  of  consolation— of  the  cup  of  sorrow  all 
must  drink — happiness  is  a  phantom,  a  meteor,  beautiful  and  bright,  always  al 
luring  us  by  its  glow— forever  within  our  reach,  but  eternally  eluding  our  grasp 
— but  this  state  of  things  was  designed  by  our  Creator  for  our  benefit — it  was 
intended  to  withdraw  our  affections  from  the  shadowy  and  unsubstantial  pleas 
ures  of  the  world,  to  the  Father  of  all  in  Heaven,  and  to  prepare,  by  discipline 
and  zeal,  for  a  state,  beyond  the  grave,  of  felicity,  which  eye  hath  not  seen,  ear 
hath  not  heard,  neither  hath  it  entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive  of.  To 
our  readers  we  cheerfully  commend  this  delightful  volume,  confident  that  by  its 
perusal  the  faith  of  the  doubtful  will  be  confirmed,  and  the  anticipative  hope  of 
the  confident  increased.— Christian's  Magazine. 

We  take  the  earliest  opportunity  of  introducing  to  our  readers  this  excellent 
little  book,  to  which  the  deeply  interesting  nature  of  the  subject,  and  the  well- 
earned  reputation  of  the  Right  Rev.  author  vviil  secure  no  inconsiderable  portion 
of  attention.  The  vast  importance  of  the  topics  herein  treated,  and  the  valuable 
practical  effects  they  may  assist  in  producing,  induce  us  to  call  thus  early  the 
public  attention  to  a  work,  small  indeed  in  size,  but  which  is  calculated  not  a 
little  to  inform  all  candid  and  serious  inquirers  into  a  subject  hitherto  involved 
in  much  obscurity,  but  not  a  little  elucidated  by  the  present  author.— Gent.  Mag. 


MEMOIR  OF  MISS  MARY  JANE  GRAHAM. 
By  the  Rev.  Charles  Bridges,  M.  A.  author  of  Christian  Min 
istry,  &c.  &c. 

We  have  seldom  read  a  biographical  sketch  which  we  could  more  cordially  or 
confidently  recommend  to  the  Christian  reader.  The  highly  gifted,  accomplished, 
and  spiritually-minded  subject  of  the  work  has  found  a  kindred  spirit  in  the  ex 
cellent  author.  He  has  used  his  valuable  materials  in  such  a  manner  as  to  ren 
der  the  memoir  of  Miss  Graham  not  less  rich  in  interest  than  full  of  instruction, 
to  all  who  are  capable  of  being  interested  in  the  highest  mental  endowments, 
sanctified  and  set  apart  to  the  service  of  God.  There  are  few,  either  believers 
or  unbelievers,  who  may  not  be  instructed  by  the  counsel,  or  benefited  by  the 
example  of  Miss  Graham.— Episcopal  Recorder. 

In  many  respects  it  is  one  of  the  richest  pieces  of  biography  with  which  we 
are  acquainted. — Presbyterian. 

TALES  OF  ROMANCE,  SECOND  SERIES. 

The  Tales  of  Romance,  which  Messrs.  Key  &  Biddle  have  just  published,  are 
altogether  above  the  ordinary  collections  of  the  day.  Every  author  included 
among  the  contributors  to  the  volume,  has  acquired  previously  a  distinct  reputa 
tion  in  other  works.  Such  names  as  Malcolm,  Roscoe,  and  others,  will  be  suffi 
cient  to  give  an  idea  of  the  merits  of  these  Tales.  The  story  of  Fazio,  from 
whence  is  derived  the  tragedy  of  that  name,  is  well  and  concisely  told.  We  shall 
present  the  best  part  of  it  soon,  to  the  readers  of  the  Intelligencer.— Daily  Intel. 

nr~ 


BIT    KEIT     &    BIDDLE. 

GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  GEOLOGY  OF  SCRIPTURE, 

In  which  the  unerring1  truth  of  the  Inspired  Narrative  of  the 
early  events  in  the  world  is  exhibited,  and  distinctly  proved,  by  the 
corroborative  testimony  of  physical  facts,  on  every  part  of  the 
earth's  surface.  By  George  Fairholme,  Esq. 

The  work  before  us  is  admirably  calculatsd  to  enlighten  the  mind  upon  the 
subject  of  Creation,  and  we  have  rarely  perused  a  work  which  has  added  so  much 
to  our  stock  of  ideas,  or  which  has  given  so  much  gratification.  If  the  limits  of 
our  paper  permitted,  we  should  take  pleasure  in  laying  before  our  readers  an 
analysis  of  the  contents  of  this  excellent  production,  but  as  that  is  out  of  the 
question,  we  must  refer  them  to  the  work  itself,  where  we  can  assure  them  they 
will  find  an  abundance  of  information  on  the  important  subject  of  Creation. — 
Phil.  Gaz. 

The  Geology  of  Scripture,  by  George  Fairholme,  Esq.  is  an  admirable  work. 
The  circulation  of  it  should  be  extensive  ;  and,  judging  from  its  intrinsic  merit, 
such  is  its  destiny. — Christian  Gazette. 

LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  COWPER,  ESQ. 

Compiled  from  his  correspondence  and  other  authentic  sources 
of  information,  containing  remarks  on  his  writings,  and  on  the 
peculiarities  of  his  interesting  character,  never  before  published. 
By  Thomas  Taylor. 

Taylor's  Life  of  Cowper  has  several  private  letters  of  the  poet  not  found  in 
other  works,  which  serve  to  correct  many  false  impressions  relative  to  his  men 
tal  aberration.  It  is  due  the  cause  of  humanity,  and  of  justice  generally,  that 
the  truth  should  be  received  ;  especially  when,  by  affecting  the  character  of  so 
great  a  man  as  Cowper,  it  in  a  great  measure  touches  the  whole  of  the  human 
kind.—  U.  S.  Oaz. 

A  comprehensive  and  perspicuous  memoir  of  Cowper  has  been  much  wanted, 
and  will  be  read  with  gratification  by  the  admirers  of  this  amiable  and  pious 
man,  whose  accomplishments,  excellencies,  and  peculiarity  of  character,  have 
rendered  him  an  object  of  interest  to  the  world.  We  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Taylor 
for  his  excellent  work,  and  for  the  happy  manner  in  which  it  has  been  accom 
plished.—  Boston  Trav. 

Thirty  years  nearly  have  passed  since  we  first  read  with  great  delight  Hayley's 
Life  of  Cowper,  and  we  have  never  cast  our  eyes  on  the  volumes  since,  without 
wishing  to  unravel  a  few  things  in  the  poet's  history  which  were  then  left  in 
mystery.  Taylor  professes  to  deal  openly,  and  remove  all  concealment.  In  one 
beautiful  volume,  he  has  given  us  the  substance  of  all  which  is  known  concern 
ing  the  most  sensible  and  pious  of  all  the  English  poets ;  whose  writings  will 
be  regarded  as  the  best  of  their  kind  wherever  the  English  language  shall  be 
read.  In  all  his  numerous  works,  he  has  no  line  of  measured  jingle  without 
sense.  Can  this  be  said  of  scarcely  any  other  child  of  the  muses?  Those  who 
have  Hayley's  two  volumes,  will  be  thankful  for  the  labors  of  Taylor ;  and  those 
who  have  neither,  should  purchase  this  new  compilation  without  delay.  It  is  a 
work  which  will  be  found  interesting  to  all  classes,  especially  to  the  lovers  of 
literature  and  genuine  piety,  and  to  place  within  the  reach  of  general  readers, 
many  of  whom  have  neither  the  means  nor  the  leisure  to  consult  larger  works,  all 
that  is  really  interesting  respecting  that  singularly  afflicted  individual,  whose  pro 
ductions,  both  poetic  and  prose,  can  never  be  read  but  with  delight. — Philadclphian. 

Messrs  Key  &  Biddle  deserve  credit  for  placing  within  the  reach  of  all,  in  so 
cheap  and  convenient  a  form,  what  must  be  salutary  in  every  instance  iff  its 
general  effect.  The  character,  pursuits,  performances,  and  sufferings  of  Cowper, 
combine  more  interest  than  belongs  to  the  life  of  any  of  the  great  English  au 
thors  who  spent  any  considerable  part  of  their  days  in  retirement. — Nat.  Gaz. 

A  beautiful  American  edition,  from  the  press  of  Key  &  Biddle,  has  just  been 
published,  and  cannot  fail  to  meet  with  a  welcome  reception  from  all  who  ad 
mire  that  best  of  men  and  most  agreeable  of  poets.  It  is  the  most  complete  and 
valuable  edition  of  the  Life  of  Cowper  extant,  and  contains  a  well-executed  por 
trait. — Paulson's  Daily  Mr. 

_ 


"WORKS    PUBLISHED    BY    KEY    &.   BIDDLE. 

LEGENDS  OF  THE  WEST. 

By  James  Hall,  second  edition,  containing  the  following1  beauti 
ful  told  tales :— The  Backwoodsman ;— The  Divining  Rod ;— The 
Seventh  Son ; — The  Missionaries ; — The  Legend  of  Carondolet ; — 
The  Intestate ; — Michael  De  Lancey ; — The  Emigrants ; — The  In 
dian  Hater ;— The  Isle  of  the  Yellow  Sands ;— The  Barrackmas- 
ter's  Daughter ; — The  Indian  Wife's  Lament. 

We  are  glad  to  see  a  new  edition  of  these  well-told  tales  of  Judge  Hall  has 
recently  been  published. — Host.  Eve.  Oaz. 

The  deserved  popularity  of  these  tales  of  Judge  Hall,  have  secured  to  them  the 
publication  of  a  second  edition.  His  sketches  are  admirably  drawn,  and  his 
personal  familiarity  with  scenery  and  life  in  the  West,  have  furnished  him  with 
incidents  of  peculiar  interest,  greatly  increased  by  felicitous  description.— JV.  Y. 
Com.  Adv. 

The  rapid  sale  of  the  first,  has  created  a  demand  for  a  second  edition  of  the 
work,  whose  title  heads  this  article. 

The  "  Legends"  comprise  twelve  articles,  one  of  which  is  poetic.  The  scenes 
of  these  tales  are  all  located  in  the  "  far,  far  West,"  and  the  characters  are  taken 
from  the  aborigines  and  early  emigrants.  The  difficulties  and  dangers  which  the 
first  settlers  had  to  undergo  ere  they  were  established  in  security,  are  depicted 
in  glowing  colors,  and  with  a  master  hand. 

The  rude  and  savage  warfare  of  the  Indians,  the  secret  ambuscade,  the  mid 
night  slaughter,  the  conflagration  of  the  log  hut  in  the  prairie  and  forest,  the 
shrieks  of  consuming  women  and  children,  are  presented  to  our  minds  by  the 
author  in  vivid  and  impressive  language.  These  tales  possess  much  interest,  as 
they  are  founded  in  fact,  and  are  illustrative  of  the  habits  of  the  Indian,  and 
the  life  of  the  hunter.  As  a  writer,  Judge  Hall  is  more  American  than  any  other 
we  possess;  his  scenes  are  American  ;  his  characters  are  American,  and  his  lan 
guage  is  American.  His  personages  are  invested  with  an  individuality  which 
cannot  be  mistaken,  and  his  conceptions  and  illustrations  are  drawn  from  the 
great  storehouse  of  Nature.— Daily  Intel. 

THE  CHURCH  OF  GOD, 

In  a  Series  of  Dissertations,  by  the  Rev.  Robert  Wilson  Evans, 
of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 

The  object  of  the  writer  is  to  show  that  the  fundamental  doctrines  of  the 
Christian  Religion  have  been  taught  in  the  various  dispensations,  from  the  in 
stitution  of  the  Church  in  the  family  of  Adam,  to  the  more  clear  and  perfect 
exposition  of  its  principles  by  the  Savior  and  his  apostles.  He  is  thus  led  to 
deal  wholly  with  general  principles — those  in  which  the  great  body  of  Christians 
agree.  This  frees  his  work  from  all  savor  of  sectarianism,  and  the  ingenuity 
and  talent  exhibited  in  its  execution,  commend  it  to  the  religious  of  every  name. 
It  would  perhaps  be  well  to  say,  that  the  above  work  is  by  the  author  of  "  Rec 
tory  of  Valehead." — Episcopal  Recorder. 

THE  PROGRESSIVE  EXPERIENCE  OF  THE  HEART, 
UNDER  THE  DISCIPLINE  OF  THE  HOLY  GHOST,  FROM 
REGENERATION  TO  MATURITY.  By  Mrs.  Stevens. 

This  is  a  work  which  may  be  recommended  to  religious  readers  and  to  serious 
inquirers,  with  great  safety.  It  is  written  in  an  impressive  style,  and  is  evi 
dently  the  production  of  a  mind  and  heart  thoroughly  imbued  with  Christian 
knowledge  and  experience.  The  operations  of  the  Holy  Ghost  upon  the  soul  of 
man,  are  traced  with  a  discrimination  which  nothing  but  a  personal  experience 
of  his  influences  could  have  furnished.  Doddridge's  Rise  and  Progress  of  Reli 
gion  in  the  Soul,  is  an  admirable  book  on  this  subject,  but  Mrs.  Stevens's  treatise 
deserves  an  honorable  place  at  its  side,  Ministers  of  the  Gospel  should  consult 
the  spiritual  welfare  of  their  people,  by  recommending  and  promoting  the  cir 
culation  of  such  works.— Presbyterian. 


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